


Bound Hearts

by belleslettres



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Deathly Hallows AU, F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore once said that someday they would all have to choose between what was right and what was easy. Draco wishes he knew what was right... because none of his choices are easy.</p><p>Set in the summer after 6th year; not Deathly Hallows compliant (though may contain spoilers anyway).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

If I had killed Dumbledore that night, I would have died too. I know that now. Maybe not right away. But not long either. But Dumbledore gave up his life, and Snape sacrificed his very _soul_ to save me. Sometimes I wonder why they bothered. 

Now is one of those times. 

“Draco…,” the Dark Lord hisses. “I have a bit of a present for you.” His red eyes are upon me.

Everyone’s eyes are upon me. The room is not so dark that I can’t easily make out the shape of my father, despite his Death Eater’s robes. And the elder Crabbe and Goyle, though in their robes, I cannot tell them apart. But not their sons, not my classmates. And for that I am grateful—for whatever is going to happen to me, and I know it will not be pleasant—at least I will not have to close my eyes and sleep in the same room with people who saw it happen. 

If I survive it. Every time I feel the Dark Mark burn, every time I am called into the Dark Lord’s presence, I wonder if this time will be the last; I wonder if he _knows_.

Lurking in the corner of the room is one last person: My Uncle Rodolphus. My Aunt Bellatrix is not here.

And I am very much afraid that I know what my _present_ will be.

But it is not a present. It is a test. A test that I _must not_ fail.

I feel sick and wonder how I will be able to do what is expected of me. What is _required_ of me. “Thank you, Master,” I find myself saying, kneeling to kiss the hem of his robes. 

Snape _had_ warned me. In those horrible days after Dumbledore’s death, Snape told me everything. He explained the choice that Dumbledore had died to give me. And in the end it wasn’t really a very difficult choice: Die having done some good or die having only done evil.

What had been almost impossible, though, was realizing that, in order to do any good at all, I was going to have to live very intimately with evil. Snape had been horrifyingly clear. He told me what he had seen—what he had _done_ —in the Dark Lord’s name. And that it would be expected of me. I truly hadn’t known any of that when I took the Dark Mark; all I had wanted was to make my family proud.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned it saved my mother’s life.

I rise. I have to. I have no choice.

The Dark Lord has commandeered Malfoy Manor for his own use, transforming my childhood home into a den of horrors. We are in one of the upstairs sitting rooms, the one my mother kept for her own use, that had been my own safe haven… where I learned to read, play chess, and cast my first—dark—spells. 

Where the Dark Lord tortured me for failing to kill Dumbledore.

Snape had thought—though he hadn’t made me any promises—that the Dark Lord wouldn’t kill me for my transgressions. And he had been right.

He found me here, in my mother’s sitting room, lying in a puddle of my own filth, still twitching from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. He administered a cleansing spell and helped me stand. If I had been any less self-absorbed, I would have realized from his clammy skin and jerky movements that Snape, too, had been tortured.

I take a deep breath in the hopes of steadying myself, and I regret it almost instantly. The air in the room is thick with the sweet scent of valerian flowers which my mother uses as a base for the sleeping potion when she wants to forget… everything. I will always associate the smell of my beautiful mother with what is shaping up to be the very worst moment of my life.

When the Dark Lord tortured me after my failure to kill Dumbledore, the pain had been mine alone; this is going to be very different.

 _Bloody hell, I sound like a fucking Gryffindor!_ This thought is helpful in cutting through the nausea which is building in my stomach. My cover is not be compromised under _any_ circumstances. This has been made very clear to me. 

At a nod from the Dark Lord, Crabbe and Goyle leave the room and return, almost instantly, with a slim figure struggling between them. She fights hard, nearly off balancing one of her captors which, given the size of them, is impressive. 

She is not a Muggle, I realize. For a split second I am able to hope that I do not know her, and then I recognize the long curls which, given her struggles, are rioting all over her head, and her brown eyes, snapping in defiance… and my heart sinks lower than I would have thought it could possibly go.

 _Hermione_. 

_What in bloody_ fuck _is she doing here_?

They drag her into the center of the room and stop before my father. “Ah, the lovely Miss Granger,” he says, entangling his fingers in those beautiful curls and pushing her onto her knees before me. She has some bruises on her face and arms but seems otherwise unhurt—for now. She meets my eyes for the briefest of seconds; she has not betrayed me. 

She will not betray me.

I can’t help her. I wrestle my face into the sneer I have always worn when addressing her. “How very lovely to see you again, Granger.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t say that the pleasure is all mine.” Her words are a bit muffled—her lip is split—but her tone is almost flippant. Bravado and false bravado, I realize, amount to the same thing.

“No,” I say, forcing the words to come out as smooth as silk. “I believe the pleasure will be all mine.” _I can’t help you. I’m sorry_.

She is wearing a sapphire necklace—clearly Muggle made, but kind of pretty, a gold heart surrounding the tiny stone—around her neck. My father rips if off and Transfigures it into a bed, complete with a white lace coverlet. “You’ll forgive us, Miss Granger, for not wanting to rut on the floor.” 

He pushes her back onto the bed, and flicks his wand at her. “ _Maganetz_!” Her wrists have become magnets, binding her to the bed. She fights, but it is no use; she cannot pull herself off that bed now—and, if I know anything about my father’s spells, the pressure of it is crushing her wrists.

With another flick of his wand, he Vanishes her clothes.

Her struggles stop, and she is visibly trembling. My father touches the side of her cheek with his wand, drags it down the side of her face, under her chin, and continues its slow trace down her side, under her breast and continues it down stopping at her….

“Filthy and unworthy, though she may be, I will admit that this little Mudblood is undeniably well made. Beautiful, even.” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips as he meets my uncle’s eyes. “I think this is going to turn out to be a very enjoyable afternoon.” 

He nods to me. “Draco.”

Dumbledore once said that someday we would have a choice between what was right and what was easy. I wish to all fucking hell that I knew what was right, because none of my choices are easy. 

I cannot stop this. If I try to stop them, we are both dead—I _know_ this—and it is going to hurt a hell of a lot getting there. 

And the Dark Lord will torture and kill my mother, and Snape, because he vouched for me. And without him… the Order members will be picked off one by one….

So I am going to rape one of the few people I can count among my friends. I am going to watch my father and his friends rape her. I am going to hope that I can somehow get her out of here alive.

Her eyes are wide and terrified, but I can see her gathering her courage, trying to give me the gift of her silence. 

It costs me everything I have to force my way inside her. She gasps, once, twice; then a scream tears from her throat. 

My heart breaks. 

I am going to hear that scream for the rest of my life.

~*~

When I finish, the Dark Lord calls me to him.

“Did you enjoy your present, Draco?” His eyes press into mine.

I do not let him see that I am… shattered.

“Yes, my lord. Very much; thank you.” I sink to my knees and kiss his robes again.

He believes me. “Sit by me, Draco.”

I sit and I watch. The coverlet turns crimson. She stops screaming during my Uncle Rodolphus’s assault. 

“Is she dead?” the Dark Lord asks, carelessly, as my uncle crawls off her. 

“Not yet, my lord,” he says, poising his wand for the death curse.

“Wait!” the Dark Lord hisses. “This girl is a friend of Harry Potter, is she not?” He looks sideways at me.

“She is, my lord.”

“Do you think he would be a bit… put out… to discover what happened at our little party?”

I arrange my face into a twisted smile. “To say the least, my lord. The words demented and deranged come to mind.” Potter was going to fucking kill me; I do not feel that this would be unjustified.

“Take her away. Leave her body where it will be found. A sort of start-of-term present for Potter, shall we say?”

“Yes, my lord.”

~*~

Apparating with a dead body is not easy, and no one objects when I wrap Hermione’s lifeless, but still—thank God!—alive, body in my cloak, pick her up, and leave the room.

Only a Malfoy can Apparate or Disapparate within Malfoy Manor, and I am forced to walk through the long halls of the Manor and out through the gardens, incongruously full of sunshine on a summer afternoon, to a point where I can safely Apparate with Hermione.

We arrive with a small pop outside the gates of Hogwarts. 

Snape is here. If I can get her to Snape, all will be well. It has to be.

“It’s all right, you’re safe now,” I say, not sure if she can hear me. I adjust the cloak to cover her a little better. “We’re at Hogwarts. You’re going to be fine.” I hope this is true.

The castle grounds are empty, draped in an unnatural silence with no students present. But Snape is running out to meet us.

“Draco? What—” He stops. 

“Professor,” I pant. “It’s—She—she’s—I…” 

Safely in his presence my control slips. I can feel myself beginning to shake. 

“It’s all right, Draco.” 

_It is most definitely not all right_. But I find his voice soothing, and he eases Hermione out of my arms.

I follow them through the grounds, into the castle, and up the marble staircase to the hospital wing. I make it as far as the bathroom. 

My stomach heaves and I vomit. I cannot stop. Even to breathe. It is as though my body is trying to rid itself of _me_. I cling to the toilet, black spots swimming before my eyes, and I wonder if I will actually die, suffocating in my own sick. It seems fitting.

There is a small pop beside me, and I feel a cool hand on the back of my neck. 

“Young Master is going to be fine,” says a high voice. Dobby.

Long fingers rub my back as I vomit yet again. There is nothing left in my stomach but bile, and it burns the back of my throat.

“I’m not your... master... anymore... Dobby.” I choke the words out between retches.

“Dobby knows that, sir. But Young Master needs help and Dobby is glad to do it.”

“I don’t deserve it,” I say. The porcelain is cold and hard under my cheek, but I cannot move; I am barely able to hold myself up.

“Of course you does, sir. You is saving Miss Hermione’s life.”

“Dobby… if you only knew…” A new bout of retching takes me.

“Dobby does know, sir. And Dobby knows that you is not a bad wizard, sir.”

I don’t really believe him, but it somehow makes me feel better. When Dobby was our house-elf, I treated him like a slave, someone—some _thing_ —who existed only to do my bidding. I never, for one moment, gave any consideration to his feelings, wants, desires, or even personal comfort. And now, when he is under absolutely no obligation to do so, he is trying to comfort me.

And it is working—if only a very little bit. 

Dobby gives me a cool, but largely tasteless, potion which slides, soothingly, down my raw throat and calms my stomach. I still feel a bit ill, but the vomiting has stopped. Dobby helps me stand and wash my face. He leads me out of the bathroom and into the quiet of the hospital wing. 

Hermione is lying on a bed, covered by a thick gray hospital wing blanket; Snape is nearby, fiddling with some vials of potion. It looks like he has cleaned off most of the blood, but bruises have flowered all over her deathly white skin; the ones on her wrists are so dark they appear almost black. The mark that will haunt me the most, though, is only a small scrape on her neck—where my father tore her necklace from her.

_What have I done?_

She sees me. I hesitate. She won’t want to see me, but I have to know if she is going to be all right. 

“Draco.” Her voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper. I am surprised that she can speak at all. She reaches out a shaking hand to me, and mechanically, I take it in my own. “Thank you,” she says.

I am completely undone. After everything that I have done, _how_ can she thank me? She should hate me. She should order me from her presence. She should send Potter and Weasley to kill me. I _want_ her to send Potter and Weasley to kill me. 

Instead, I find myself kneeling beside her bed, my face buried in the blankets, with her fingers clumsily stroking my hair. “It’s all right,” she says.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry.” And I cry for the first time in almost ten years.

I feel Snape’s hand on my shoulder and manage to collect myself. I sit down on the edge of her bed.

I am still holding her hand when Professor McGonagall comes into the room. “I cannot find her, Severus,” she says. 

“Is she…?” Hermione’s scratchy whisper sounds worried.

“Oh, no, dear,” Professor McGonagall, says distractedly. She reaches out as if to touch Hermione’s forehead and stops. “Madam Pomfrey is visiting her sister in India. It is very hard to contact anyone there. She’s due back tomorrow.” She fixes a beady eye on Snape. “Can you manage without Poppy, Severus? Or… do we need to send for a Healer from St. Mungo’s?”

That would complicate matters.

“No,” Snape says. “I can tend her.”

“Well,” Professor McGonagall says. “I daresay you’ve had enough experience with these sorts of injuries.”

The pause before Snape’s next words hangs in the air like a living thing, but when he finally speaks, there is only a slight edge to his voice. “I daresay I have. But it occurs to me to wonder if Miss Granger would like a woman who _would_ be able to stay here with her. Her mother, perhaps?”

All of the remaining color in Hermione’s face drains away—even her bruises seem to pale a little—and she squeezes my hand even tighter. 

“No?” Snape’s voice gentles as he looks down at Hermione. “Hermione, would you like me to send for Molly?”

She shakes her head, a lone tear slipping down her cheek.

Professor McGonagall, who had seemed momentarily softened, collects herself. “Well, in that case… Mr. Malfoy, come along then. You’ve done enough for one day.” Her tone is the usual, brusque one she always used when addressing me, but her eyes are the coldest I have ever seen them. I have to fight not to flinch. 

Hermione makes a small noise and squeezes my hand almost painfully. I cannot believe she wants me to stay. If I were in her place, I would never want to see me again. Hell, _I_ never want to see me again. But if she wants me, I won’t let her go. And I do know why she wants me to stay—she doesn’t have to tell me anything. There is nothing that has happened to her that I don’t already know.

“Draco.” The voice behind me has gentled some, and I have to look to make sure it _is_ still Professor McGonagall. “You need sleep,” she says as if she thinks I will ever truly sleep again. “You are almost as pale as Hermione.”

I begin to refuse, but Snape interrupts me. “No, Draco, you have to go. You do need to rest, and the Dark Lord will be expecting you to answer for this before long. You will need to be prepared.”

He is right. I feel a thrill of fear; I have disappointed the Dark Lord yet again. I stand up and gently squeeze Hermione’s fingers. “I will come back tomorrow…” _I hope_. I falter. “If you want me…”

She nods and releases me. Snape gives her a potion—Dreamless Sleep, unless I am mistaken. She will need it. “Draco,” she says, her eyelids already closing, “Be safe.” 

“Draco.” Snape’s voice is sharp. “Look at me.” 

_I am Apparating into the woods by the school, a bloody and broken Hermione in my arms. I see Snape, Professor McGonagall talking and Professors Sprout and Flitwick standing nearby. I cannot hear what they are saying._

_“What in the world…,” Professor McGonagall says._

_“Draco? What—” He stops. A look of understanding cross his face._

_“Professor,” I pant. “It’s—She—she’s—I…”_

_“It’s all right, Draco,” Snape says. “Leave it to me.” He takes Hermione from me._

_“It’s all right, now, Draco,” Professor McGonagall says. “You’re both safe now. Professor Snape will take care of Hermione. Please go to your dormitory. I will see that dinner is sent down.”_

Snapes’s eyes release me. I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Draco,” Professor McGonagall says, “Professor Snape will take care of Hermione. Please go to your dormitory. I will see that dinner is sent down.” 

Snape _is_ good. That “memory” he gave me may well save my life. And then I realize it. He is risking his life to save me. Again. 

“Professor, I…” I am not exactly sure what to say to him. 

“No, Draco. It is better this way.”

Professor McGonagall looks confused. “And you will be needing a potion for Dreamless Sleep as well.”

“No, Minerva,” Snape says.

“Severus.” Professor McGonagall is not used to being contradicted. “Surely after everything he has been through....”

“Damn it, Minerva!” Snape brings his hand down on Hermione’s bedside table. Several of the vials clink in response. Luckily, Hermione is already fast asleep. “If I gave him a potion for Dreamless Sleep every time he was forced to do something _distasteful_ , the boy would be an addict in no time, and the Dark Lord would be able to open his mind like a fucking book! And what, Minerva, do you think will happen to him then?”

Professor McGonagall looks as though she had been slapped. “I’m sorry, Severus. You are right… It’s just… they’re so _young_.”

“How old was I, Minerva? How old were the Longbottoms? Or the original Saint Potter and his cohorts? Or…” Snape’s voice thickens and both heads turn toward the bed where Hermione now lies, asleep. “Lily…”

An emotion which looks remarkably like anguish crosses Snape’s face. A second later it is gone. 

“Oh, dear.” Professor McGonagall collects herself yet again and sends me to my dormitory.

~*~

The floors of Malfoy Manor are made of stone and cold, even at the end of August. And, as I lie on the floor in the formal parlor, my one truly coherent thought is that I wish that the Dark Lord had waited until I reached the carpet to curse me. I shiver. Part of it is the after-tremors of the Cruciatus Curse, but part of it is a simple chill.

I do not dare move. I am not even sure that I can.

I do not know how long I have been lying here. Likely not long. But it seems as though I have been under the curse forever. And that I have been lying here longer. 

“Draco. Come to me.”

My bones are liquid, and my muscles are nothing but flames. I cannot imagine how I am forcing them to support me as I crawl to the Dark Lord and kiss the hem of his robes.

“Draco, my boy, why is the girl still alive?”

Apologies spill out of my mouth. I know they are pointless. The Dark Lord does not accept apologies or excuses.

“Silence!” 

I am silent. He looks into my eyes. The “memory” Snape prepared flows out of me. The Dark Lord does not look deeper. 

“Why is she not dead, Severus?” The Dark Lord has turned on Snape. 

I know why Snape has done this for me: Snape is valuable to the Dark Lord, I am not.

“The boy was careless, my lord. He shouldn’t have come to the castle. But…,” Snape shrugs, “given the situation, I could not very well hex the Headmistress and half the senior staff just so the boy could finish his little project.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrow, and he casts a curse like the crack of a whip. Snape inhales sharply and sinks to one knee but does not fall.

“And, my lord,” Snape continues silkily, though he makes no effort to rise, “it may have been a fortunate accident.”

“How so?”

“My lord, the girl can only be killed once. But she can hardly keep an… event… of this magnitude secret. She will be shattered; Potter will be… shattered. We will have removed one of his strongest allies, and yet, she can still be used again should my lord ever have need of her.” 

The Dark Lord fixes his eyes onto Snape, then onto me. “Very well. Draco, you are forgiven. Severus, Bella, make sure he learns not to disappoint me again.”

A hungry smile appears on my Aunt Bellatrix’s face. “ _Crucio_!” 

They take turns.

Snape’s spell is standard. And I know he is trying to spare me as much as possible. It doesn’t matter. Fire replaces my blood, my bones become ice. The very fibers of my muscles feel as though they are being torn apart. Screams I am unable to stop tear from my throat. My aunt has her own special touch to the spell. Nephew or not, she does not hold back. And her spell is more than simple pain—it is laced with misery, anguish, and dark-lust. In addition to the ice-and-fire pain, I feel dirty, used.

I vomit. 

“That will do.” I can barely hear the Dark Lord over my own screams. “Bella!”

She has hit me with one last taste of the curse. I vomit again.

“Severus, remove him.”

~*~

Soft fingers run over my temple, through my hair. I am awake, but I do not want to open my eyes. I am afraid the fingers will stop. But I am shaking. I can still feel the after-tremors of the Cruciatus Curse rippling through my body.

“Shhh, Draco, it’s all right.” The voice is soft and beautiful, but sounds rusty. 

“Hermione?” It hurts to talk.

“I’m here, Draco.” She tips a vial of nasty-tasting liquid down my throat. It is Snape’s potion to counter the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Almost instantly I feel better.

I take a sip of water from the glass she’s holding for me, then ask, suddenly panicked, “What time is it?” I have no idea if I have been unconscious for a few minutes or days.

“I don’t know… late. Professor Snape brought you back a couple of hours ago.”

I can see that now. It is dark out, and the hospital wing has that otherworldly middle-of-the-night feel to it. A pool of candlelight flickers around is, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Where is he?”

“Brewing. That was the last bottle of the Anti-Cruciatus Potion.” She looks at the empty potion bottle, still in her hand. “He’s all right, Draco.”

I doubt it.

This is not the first time he has been made to torture me. He is my godfather, and despite everything, I have never doubted that he loves me. My Aunt Bellatrix is my godmother, but God knows she doesn’t love anybody but herself—and the Dark Lord. I have doubted my mother’s love for me and I know my father’s love for me depends solely on what I have done most recently to please him, but Snape’s love… that has always been unconditional. 

I wish I had remembered that when the time had come for me to take the Dark Mark. I wish I had thought to trust him then….

I sit up. I am stiff and sore, but not really harmed. The potion has quelled the tremors.

“Are you all right?” I ask. She doesn’t look it. The bruises on her face are healing fast and they cast a sickly yellow shadow across her face. The ones on her wrists are still dark—they must have been bruised all the way down to the bone—and I wonder how she was able to manipulate the tiny vial of potion. I wonder how much moving her fingers through my hair hurt her. And she is holding herself stiffly, though I cannot tell if it is physical or emotional pain that is causing it. Probably both.

A haunted look steals across her face. “I don’t know.”

_I’m so sorry, Hermione._

“You were tortured because of me, weren’t you?”

I nod. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I know…”

I squeeze her hand a little. “Hermione... I couldn’t have stopped them… and me… from…” 

I feel as though I have swallowed broken glass, feel the sharp shards pricking me from the back of my throat all the way down to my stomach. Breathing hurts. But avoiding the word will not change the reality.

“From raping you. But I would not have killed you. Even if I had _known_ he would have killed me, I wouldn’t have done it.” It is true; I am a little surprised to find that it is true.

“I know that.” 

I don’t doubt that she does; she probably knew it all along. Sometimes I think she is the only Order member who trusts me—except for Snape, and most people don’t really trust him. But since the moment Snape brought me before the Order of the Phoenix—terrified and sick with guilt and torture—she has spoken only kind words to me. At first they were forced but polite, then genuine but tentative, and then… She has gone from one of my worst enemies to my one true friend. 

And now…

Her eyes are glistening and I watch, mesmerized, as she blinks and allows a tear to slip down her cheek. I brush it away only to find another has taken its place. Her tears spill silently over her cheeks and over my thumbs as I try desperately to wipe them all away.

I cannot.

She lets out a muffled sob and I pull her into my arms. Her hair smells like springtime—wild roses and fresh-cut grass—and I let a few tears of my own fall, unregarded, into her curls. 

“What is going on in here?” Madam Pomfrey’s voice cuts through the hospital wing. “Miss Granger, what are you doing out of bed? And you, young man, lie down. Don’t you know you might have died tonight?”

Hermione collects herself and looks up at the nurse but makes no movements to leave my arms. “I rather think he is aware of that, Madam Pomfrey.”

The nurse blanches. “Yes… well… All the more reason for him to be in bed. Now lie down and I will get you something to help you sleep.” 

A potion for a Dreamless Sleep. God, how I want that wonderful potion that will allow me to sink into the dark, comforting folds of sleep without having to relive the look in Snape’s eyes when he killed Dumbledore… Or my Aunt Bella’s Cruciatus Curse, which in my nightmares never ends, even when I am dead and nothing but bones... Without having to feel myself push into Hermione, to see the panic in her eyes, to hear her scream. 

“No,” I say.

Hermione squeezes my hand. “We’ll be fine,” she says and flicks her wand. The bed she has been sleeping in scuttles over toward mine.

Madam Pomfrey begins to object but Hermione ignores her and climbs into bed.

The crack between the mattresses gapes like a fault line, but Hermione reaches a few tentative fingers across it. I intertwine my fingertips with hers and close my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that as per cannon Draco was crying in the bathroom with Myrtle at the end of sixth year. I even know that it was Kinda Important. However, having Draco cry for the first time in six weeks just didn’t have the same ring.
> 
> Also, Muggles who are Learned in Herb Lore know that valerian root is used a sedative. However, valerian root smells a little like dirty socks. The flowers, on the other hand, smell lovely. I am not sure what properties, if any, valerian flowers have, or even if they are safe to use. Narcissa, of course, is a witch, so the rules would naturally be different for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

The darkness around me is pierced by a scream, and it takes a moment for me to realize that it is not me that is screaming. I lie very still, trying to get my bearings. Moonlight filters into the room, casting striped shadows across the far wall. Bars? No, beds. 

I am in the hospital wing, and the scream has come from Hermione. 

“Hermione? _Hermione_!”

She is sound asleep and thrashing in her bed. 

“Hermione! Wake up!” I am reluctant to shake her, but I cannot let her dream continue. She looks so scared. And I am afraid that she will hurt herself. 

She wakes with a start. “No!” she gasps. “Please! Stay away!”

“Hermione, it’s okay. It’s…”

Why do I think that my presence would be of any comfort to her? It is not as though I am not part of her nightmares. I release her, almost too suddenly, unbalancing myself.

“Draco? I… I… I was dreaming….”

“I know.” 

She draws her knees to her chest, hugging herself into a ball. The moonlight has robbed the world of color, and her nightdress blends with the white of the sheets, and her hair, dark and otherworldly, floats around her shoulders, hiding her face. She looks so lost, a ghost, made of nothing but mist and shadows. 

With a wave of my wand, I light the torches nearest us. Her cheeks are wet with tears. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she says softly. 

I hadn’t been asleep. Not really. “I’m sorry you have nightmares,” I say.

Those nightmares are thick in the room, prowling just outside the circle of light created by the torches; I resist the impulse to light the rest.

“Let me get you some of that Dreamless Sleep potion,” I say instead.

“You don’t take it.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t you… have nightmares?”

I close my eyes. “Every night.”

I force myself to get out of bed and cross out of the torchlight. The vials of Dreamless Sleep are on a table across the room. I retrieve one for Hermione. But none for me.

She accepts the vial, turning it slightly in her hand, allowing the viscous purple liquid to coat the sides of the glass, but makes no move to drink it. 

“How do you…?”

“I don’t,” I say shortly. 

Her eyes are still on me. I meet them. 

“I try to remember who I’m doing this for. That I’m not the person I’m pretending to be.” My voice catches. “Occlumency helps some. But sometimes I just have to wait for morning…. I can usually sleep a little after first light.” 

Her smile is shaky, as though she is fighting not to cry.

“You need to sleep, though,” I say. “In order to heal, you need to sleep.”

“I know, but… I’m afraid. What if… What if I’m having bad dreams and I just don’t know it? What if they’re… _there_ … and I just can’t wake up?”

“I won’t let you have bad dreams.” I brush back a few of her curls, meeting her eyes. I am amazed, and truly frightened, by the depth of feeling I have for her.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” 

“You won’t leave me?” She unstoppers the vial.

“Never.”

She drinks the potion. I take the empty vial from her, setting it beside my bed. She lies down, her head almost in my lap, and I help her pull up the blankets. I push back a few more of her curls. She is asleep within moments.

~*~

My hand is still in her hair, absently stroking the soft strands, when Snape slips, wraith-like, into the hospital wing. His feet are silent but I hear him. I am not asleep.

He is carrying a box full of potion vials and sets them down on the far table with a soft clink. 

“Draco,” he asks, putting a cool hand on my head, “are you all right?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Any tremors? Are you cold at all?” 

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Well, that’s good then.” He is silent for a moment. “Draco, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. About everything.”

“I know, sir, it’s just…,” I trail off, my eyes going to Hermione.

“It’s all right, Draco.”

“No it’s not. It will never be all right again, sir. You know that.”

~*~

We have had three days of relative peace at Hogwarts. Hermione has refused to return to Headquarters, and she has refused the company of Potter and Weasley. I have not been Summoned to return to the Dark Lord, but have been allowed me to remain at Hogwarts with Snape.

Incredibly, Snape is still welcome at Hogwarts—even after murdering the headmaster; Dumbledore left orders, it seems. 

So I have been here under Snape’s supervision for most of the summer, my punishment, my deliverance. Snape, who killed Dumbledore in order to save me, who brought me before the Order in order to protect me, who has endured the wrath of the Dark Lord in order to spare me, has arranged that I am to remain at Hogwarts as a spy. 

This is true no matter if you ask my father or Professor McGonagall—though for my part in letting the Death Eaters into the school last year the Headmistress insists that I serve detention with Snape every night of term. 

Which begins today. The rest of the students are arriving tonight on the train, and Hermione is pacing the hospital wing.

“I can’t do this,” she whispers.

I make an enquiring noise. She is making me nervous. Snape is leaning against the wall, his face a perfect mask. But she is making him nervous, too; I can tell. 

“I can’t face Harry and Ron. They will want to know what happened, and I _can’t_ tell them. And… everyone else… I can’t go on acting like everything is all right. They’re going to ask how was your summer and _what_ am I going to say? Oh, it was lovely except for when I was looking for a book in Diagon Alley and two Death Eaters grabbed me, and they took me to… and they… they…” 

She is very nearly hysterical, taking deep, gasping breaths to steady herself. 

I pull her into my arms. I rub her back.

She shudders but seems to have regained at least some of her composure. 

“Miss Granger, I’m very sorry,” Snape says. He really does sound sorry. “But this was never meant to be a secret. It is extremely likely that Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were informed by their fathers and are sharing the details with certain Slytherines and… others… even as we speak. And I believe that Professor McGonagall acquainted Potter and Weasley with the basic facts last night.”

“No!” Hermione whispers, her grip tightening painfully on my arm. “I didn’t want them to know.”

I didn’t want them to know either.

“She seemed to feel that it was better that they heard it from her than from Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle.” 

“What did she say happened to me?” Hermione’s voice quavers. 

“She told them that you were taken from Diagon Alley, brought to Malfoy Manor, and raped by several Death Eaters. She told them that Draco brought you back here, that you have recovered from your physical injuries, and that you are as well as you can be under the circumstances. She told them that what happened was absolutely _not_ your fault and not to press you for details you are not ready to give. She reminded them that they love you, that you love them, and that you _will_ get through this.”

Tears are falling freely from Hermione’s eyes, rolling down her cheeks, and dripping off onto her shirt. But she is calmer now. 

“Hermione.” I tilt her head—gently—up to look me in the eye. “It will be all right.”

The barest hint of a smile appears on her face. And I lean down and kiss her lips, the lightest feather of a kiss. 

I can’t think why I did it. 

But I am unmistakably pleased to find that she is kissing me back. Lightly, tentatively, but, nevertheless, kissing me back.

~*~

“So, I hear that filthy little Mudblood bitch finally got what’s coming to her,” Crabbe says about eighteen seconds after we enter the Common Room.

“Yeah,” Goyle adds, “you were there weren’t you? How was it? Was she tight?”

The effort to keep from throwing up distracts me from my desire to curse him into a smoking pile of ash. “Don’t talk about it!” I snap.

“Why not?” Goyle looks confused, Crabbe, slightly suspicious. 

Good question. I certainly can’t say that, knowing that her attack was about to go public, the _one_ thing Hermione asked of me was not to tell people—and by people I think she meant Potter and Weasley—that I was… involved. I scan the room and see Pansy surreptitiously watching us. 

“Pansy,” I say.

Now they both look confused. 

“Pansy is a lot more like my Aunt Bellatrix”—and I am gratified by the appropriate shivers at the invocation of Aunt Bella’s name—“than she is like my mother. Or your mothers.” Goyle’s mother is a wispy thing that fades into almost nothingness beside her son and husband; I am not sure that I have ever actually heard her speak. Crabbe has gotten most his looks from his mother, though she, too, has learned the art of nearly disappearing in her husband’s presence. It goes without saying that Aunt Bella does not disappear—ever—nor bow to the whims of her husband. A brief smile touches my lips at the way their relationship is nearly opposite of the traditional pureblood gender roles. I smile again, pleased to have a genuine smile on my face. “After the… incident… I took some advice from my Uncle Rodolphus—basically when an opportunity… such as the one I had just before term… comes up take it, enjoy it, and say nothing, lest it reach the ears of your beloved.” 

They nod, knowingly. But I don’t believe them. “In other words,” for their benefit, I speak slowly and clearly, “for the public record: _I was not involved_. I do not wish to be hexed by Pansy.” 

I do not want Hermione to suffer any more than she already has.

~*~

The first few weeks of school pass uneventfully.

Hermione is paler than usual, and quieter. She has survived the stares and whispers of the student body and the taunts that Crabbe and Goyle sent her way better than they did—Goyle was in the hospital wing for three days, Crabbe for two; Weasley has detention every night for a month. 

Hermione and I don’t talk—how could we?—but I know she hasn’t told Potter and Weasley everything. 

I know because I am still alive.

I make my snide comments to them in the halls. I make sure to call someone a Mudblood at least once a day. But never Hermione. I can’t do it. I have _seen_ her blood—and it looks just like mine. 

We have Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions together. 

Snape has paired us up for Potions. Potter and Weasley object strongly to this little arrangement, and together they lose Gryffindor thirty house points. I make sure to glare at Snape and send a—largely harmless—hex at Weasley. Behind the cover of our shared cauldron, I touch her fingers whenever we pass an ingredient or a tool back and forth. 

Hermione can smile with her eyes, even when her face registers nothing but indifference. 

She is never alone now. Potter and Weasley trail her everywhere she goes. As do Longbottom, Ginny, and that ridiculous Luna Lovegood. 

As do I, but I try to be discrete about it. 

I smell it first—the thick scent of valerian flowers drifting through the air, sprung from the garlands strung around Luna’s neck. I stifle the wave of nausea that hits me. 

“Do you like them?” Luna’s voice floats like waves after the scent towards _Hermione_.

Shit.

Hermione pales.

_Fuck_.

“Oh, yes, they’re lovely,” Ginny says. 

“They are for protection. Valerian has calming properties, you know. They will give you an aura of peace and no one will want to attack you.” Luna extends one of the garlands towards Hermione and another toward Ginny.

“Naturally,” Ginny says. Her eyes twinkle, but she does not laugh at her friend.

“Thank you.” Hermione reaches mechanically for the garland, her smile frozen on her face. She is as white as the ghosts and nearly as transparent. I watch her eyes close, and I can see the beginnings of a faint.

Potter and Weasley are standing right beside her. They do not notice. 

“Potter!” I shout frantically. “Look at Hermione!” 

Both Potter and Weasley turn toward me, shooting loathsome glances. She is going to fall right between them, and they are not even going to notice in time to catch her.

I move faster than I could have ever thought possible. “Get out of the way!”

Potter, his expression one of shock, does; I take a certain amount of pleasure in elbowing Weasley sharply out of the way as Hermione faints directly into my arms. I cradle her in my arms and am leaning forward to kiss her temple when I freeze. 

_What in bloody_ fuck _l am I thinking_?

Neither my shout, nor my dash to catch her, could have escaped notice. There are not many students in the courtyard… but there are enough. I _should_ have let her faint dead onto the ground and let Weasley carry her to the hospital wing. I should have made some cruel joke. 

“Is she okay?” That was Longbottom. If I had called out to _him_ he probably would have caught her. Or at least tried.

Potter and Weasley are glaring at me with even more venom than usual. Luna is staring out into space. Ginny’s cat eyes meet mine, and she gives me a knowing half-smile.

I don’t hear the spell she whispers, slippery as death, but I feel time slow almost to the stopping point. I watch a butterfly fly by, watch each flap of its wings… before Ginny brings me to my senses.

“Go,” she says. “You only have a minute or two. They won’t remember anything. Well _they_ probably will,” she amends, waiving her wand—which I did not even see her draw—in the direction of Potter and Weasley, both of whom are looking at me, their expressions slowly, one heartbeat at a time, changing from venomous to murderous. “Hurry.”

“Ginny,” I call over my shoulder, “Get rid of those garlands.”

~*~

I burst through the door to the hospital wing with Hermione, still unconscious, in my arms.

“Mr. Malfoy!” Madam Pomfrey comes running out of her office. “What in the world?”

“Is she all right?”

“Well, set her down here,” Madam Pomfry indicates a bed, “and we’ll see. Do you know what happened to her? Was it a hex or…?”

“What the hell have you done, Malfoy!” Weasley bursts into the hospital wing, wand out, followed closely by Potter, who doesn’t seem _quite_ as upset and _isn’t_ pointing his wand at me, and Ginny, who appears to be trying to reason with her brother. I take note of the fact that _her_ wand is also out, and that she seems to be pointing it in the direction of her brother, and choose to ignore him in favor of picking up Hermione’s hand.

Her eyelids flutter. “Draco…”

“I’m here.”

“Get your hands off her, you…” 

I am not sure if Weasley manages to shut himself up, or if Ginny does it for him. I do not look.

Madam Pomfrey gives me a cold glare, which I also ignore, and she turns her attention to Hermione. “Well, Miss Granger, can you tell me what happened?”

“He hexed her! Any idiot can see that!”

“It was… I was remembering… when they…” She shudders and I squeeze her hand.

“I think it was the smell….,” I say softly. I tear my eyes away from the deathly pale girl lying before me. 

Whatever Snape might say, Potter is not stupid. I can see him analyzing things said and things _not_ said and arriving at some conclusions. He is staring at me, and I can see him fighting not to lose his temper until he knows all of the reasons why he should. 

“What smell?” Madam Pomfrey asks. She can try, but is not going to get control of this situation anytime soon.

“Valerian, I should imagine.” Ginny doesn’t miss a trick.

“It was in the room… when…” I falter. 

“How… do you know that?” Potter asks me, his voice a sort of deadly quiet. 

“Because he rescued her,” Ginny says matter-of-factly. 

Potter swallows visibly, and though he looks as though someone is trying to choke him, chooses civilization over blind rage. “Malfoy, I… never said… Thank you.”

“Thank him?” Weasley has started shouting again. “ _Thank_ him? He’s probably the one who kidnapped her in the first place, we all know he’s a traitor and—”

“ _Patrificas Totalis_!” 

“Miss Weasley!” Madam Pomfrey is horrified. 

“I don’t think any of us wanted to hear the rest of _that_ little temper tantrum,” Ginny says calmly. 

“Harry,” Ginny continues, “why don’t you take _him_ ,” Ginny flicks her wand at Weasley, who twitches a little, but remains otherwise immobile, “out of here so Madam Pomfrey can look at Hermione?”

Potter seems a little taken aback, but consents.

Madam Pomfrey draws shut a curtain around Hermione and, finally, is afforded an opportunity to examine her patient.

“What do you know?” I ask Ginny without preamble.

“Everything.”

“She told you?” In a certain sense I am relieved. 

“No. But, Malfoy, I’m not an idiot. I know you were there. And… I know what they made you… I mean, I know… that you wouldn’t have been allowed to just… sit there.”

“No…” But for one terrible moment I _am_ sitting there listening to Hermione’s screams, and the Death Eaters’ taunts, and smelling the god-awful valerian that reminds me of my mother, which is mingled with the smell of blood and cum – some of which, I know, is my own – and the musty smell that is the Dark Lord. “You don’t really know, you know,” I tell her. “You have no idea….”

“I know that you saved her life. I know that she would be dead if you hadn’t been there.”

She is right, of course. Sometimes I think that that is _all_ that keeps me sane.

“What I can’t quite figure out,” Ginny says, almost meditatively, “is why she’s still talking to you. I mean, if it were me, I’d be grateful, of course. And I wouldn’t hold it against you, honestly. But I would want you to stay far away from me. But Hermione… she… she wants—almost _needs_ —to be where you are.”

It is strange to hear Ginny say it out loud. Because that is exactly how I feel. I _need_ to be where Hermione is also.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

Hermione had, in fact, just fainted, or so Madam Pomfrey insists as she tries to shoo me from the Hospital Wing. “I told you, Mr. Malfoy, she is fine. Miss Granger is going to have a little nap, and I will release her in time for dinner. You can see her then.”

But I won’t be able to talk to her. I won’t be able to make sure she is really alright. “But…”

“Enough, Mr. Malfoy. Where are you supposed to be?”

“Potions,” I say, peering around the curtains Madam Pomfrey has drawn around Hermione’s bed as the nurse writes a note of explanation to Snape.

Hermione is fast asleep, and a small amount of color has returned to her cheeks. I wonder what Madam Pomfrey would do if I simply refused to leave. 

Reluctantly I take the note and make my way through the quiet halls down into the dungeons and Potions class. Snape takes my note with a slight frown. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Very well. We’ve already begun. Since your partner has elected not to grace us with her presence, you may join another table for today.”

I glance at Potter and Weasley’s table… as if I could actually go and work with them. Weasley seems to have recovered, though his face is a little redder than normal; Potter is looking at me with interest. I give him the barest nod—do we know each other well enough for him to understand that I am telling him that Hermione is okay?—and I look in the direction of Pansy and her friend before I set my things down next to Crabbe and Goyle. Because I have to. 

“Where’ve you been?” Goyle asks.

“Hospital wing.”

“What for?” Crabbe prods the lumpy mass which, according to the instructions on the blackboard, is supposed to be a Scintillation Solution.

I snatch up the potions book, hoping that I can fix the mess that will be my grade for today’s work. While I am actually quite a good potion brewer, I do not have Hermione’s skill at repairing someone else’s mistakes partway through brewing. “Granger had some sort of fit or something this morning. And that idiot Weasley blamed me.”

“What’d you do to her?” Crabbe’s face twists into a toothy smile.

“Nothing, actually.” I force myself to return his smile. “This time.”

~*~

I pull open the door to Snape’s office, as I do every evening, to find him sitting at his desk staring at me with the sort of look he might have used if I was actually there to serve a detention.

I let the door close behind me. 

“Do I need to tell you how very foolish that was?”

He’s right, of course. My life depends on maintaining the mask of a proper Pureblood prince. And playing Prince Charming to Hermione Granger is not part of that game. But if it happened all over again, even in the crowded Great Hall, I do not think I could stop myself from doing the same thing. “No, sir.”

He stands, and crosses the room toward me. “I suppose I should make you scrub cauldrons.” 

“I could do that, sir.” Usually I just do my homework during my detention; sometimes I grade the first and second years’ homework, sometimes I help Snape brew. 

Snape sinks into one of the chairs by the fire and indicates that I should sit in the other. “Wine or tea?”

I hesitate a moment, then sit down. “Wine, please.” 

A bottle of elf-made wine and two goblets appear on the table between us. Wordlessly, Snape uncorks the wine, pours two gobletfulls, and hands one to me. I am grateful that he is not making me scrub cauldrons, but I cannot think that he merely wanted to drink wine with me.

He takes a sip of his wine, and although he is staring at the fire, I know he is watching me closely. Waiting.

I sip my own wine in silence. Snape refills the goblets. Finally I work up the courage to say what has been haunting me for some time now. “Uncle Severus,” I ask, addressing him, almost unconsciously, in the familiar, something I have not done since I received my Hogwarts letter, “why doesn’t she hate me?”

Snape regards me for a long time. “Draco, do you know what _Limitare i Cuori_ is?”

“Of course. It’s a Dark ritual, sometimes used with a marriage ceremony. It uses a witch’s virgin blood to bind her, body and soul, to the wizard who performs the ritual.”

“Exactly.”

I am confused.

“But what…?” Was he suggesting that I had _bound_ Hermione to me, the same way my mother was bound to my father, helpless, unable to stop loving him while he… “Are you implying that I… I…? Because I would _never_ …” I am very nearly shouting.

“Of course you wouldn’t have.” 

I find Snape’s matter-of-fact tone, and his confidence in me, soothing. 

He takes another sip of wine. “It wasn’t all that long ago—just a few hundred years, really—that the children of powerful families, both Wizarding and Muggle, were married very young, mainly for political reasons. Thirteen or fourteen years old, sometimes younger. As I understand it, these marriages were often quite traumatic for the parties involved. They were rarely permitted to meet prior to the ceremony which was witnessed _in its entirety_ by the children’s fathers, members of the clergy, and a number of other interested adults.”

I shudder.

“ Nevertheless, if _both_ children were untouched at the time of their first union, and if they could find it within themselves to trust each other, an almost impenetrable bond was created. This was _mutual_ bond of trust, magic at its purest, that gave neither party control over the other and led to a number of strong and stable marriages.” 

Perhaps it is the lateness of the hour, perhaps it is the wine, but I am having a little trouble figuring out how this relates to me.

“Hermione was a virgin when you… took… her. As, I suspect, were you,” Snape says with knowing look in his eye. 

Snape does know me very well; certainly better than my father who is thoroughly convinced I fucked the Muggle whore he bought me for my thirteenth birthday. 

“But I didn’t do anything…”

“You didn’t need to. Like I said, it is magic at its purest. It simply is. You were in a terrifying situation, and you put your lives in each other’s hands. You were both virgins. The bond was created. You will always have a special place in each other’s hearts.”

“But does that mean we are now somehow _bound_ together? Forever?” I ask, the thought that I might not consider a permanent relationship with Hermione as a negative thing, unsettling me.

“Not necessarily.” He smiles almost sadly. “I think all you would need to do to break the bond is to want to. You could then go your separate ways, marry other people…. It is only the roots, the pure form, of _Limitare i Cuori_. The actual spell is, of course, as you mentioned, Dark Magic. And it is easily, and often, abused—usually by an older, more experienced male binding his young wife to him, though the reverse is also possible.”

“How…?”

“You would have to ask your Aunt Bellatrix about that.”

“I think I’d rather not.”

“Wise of you.”

I take another sip of wine, and another. I am surprised to find the goblet empty again. I am also surprised to find that it is eleven o’clock. My detention is officially over. I set down my goblet.

Snape smiles. “Good night, Draco.”

“Goodnight, sir. Uncle Severus.” 

“Draco.” Snape’s voice stops me, my hand on the door handle. “Unless I am very much mistake in your character, you weren’t any more willing than Hermione. It might be helpful for you to remember that when you are drowning in your guilt. The Dark Lord essentially raped you both.”

~*~

I enter the common room to find Crabbe and Goyle waiting up for me, as usual.

“So, what did you have to do?”

“What?” 

“In detention, what did Snape make you do?”

“He didn’t make me do anything,” I snap, “it’s not like I’m going there to scrub cauldrons. We had some wine, talked a bit, then I left.”

“What’d you talk about?” Crabbe asks.

I wonder if they are spying on me, or if they are just curious. Unlike me, they have not yet been officially called into our _Master’s_ service. I cannot resist passing my hand over my Marked arm, as if I could just brush it away, though they take the gesture as an illustration of my favor and look both humbled and awed. “Things…” 

I brush past them and walk into our dormitory. As I pull shut the draperies surrounding my bed, I silently cast a number of strong wards and a silencing charm. 

I lie there, completely alone within the full dormitory, knowing that sleep will never come. Snape’s parting words haunt me. I curl around my pillows, and for the first time, allow myself to feel violated. Until this moment, all my concern has been centered around Hermione, and I realize that I have completely ignored any of my own feelings about what happened that afternoon. Beyond guilt.

But I do feel that something… precious… has been taken. 

I am not sure, even now, when I first noticed Hermione as someone other than the Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter, the hated defeater of the Dark Lord. 

But ever since that idiot Krum escorted Hermione to the Yule Ball in our fourth year—and bragged about how he was going to get in the pretty little Mudblood bookworm’s knickers afterward—she had ensnared me. She was stunning, all powder blue and with a sparkle that did not come from the glitter in her hair; she’d had his number and was beating him at his own game. I tried to see only the insult—a Mudblood outsmarting a Pureblood—but, even then, I couldn’t quite get past the exquisite cunning. It was beautiful. _She_ was beautiful. 

And she was beautiful when, in front of all the Order members, she stretched out her hand to mine, and said, “Malfoy. Welcome. Dinner is in about an hour. We eat in the kitchen downstairs.” I hadn’t wanted to release her hand, a lifeline in a sea of hatred. And she smiled a tiny, tentative smile, and I felt a spark of _hope_ for the very first time. 

I might have loved her, even then. And they made me rape her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, yes, royal marriages (in France, at least) were consummated before witnesses. Some things you just can't make up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

“ _Draaaco…_ ”

I turn and see the pearly form of Moaning Myrtle hovering in the corner of the bathroom. Bloody hell! How long has _she_ been there?

“Myrtle, how wonderful to see you.” I have learned to be very nice to this ghost.

“Hermione is in the lav in the Charms corridor. Crying.” 

I can see that Myrtle is trying to deliver this message with a certain amount of sympathy, but it’s just not in her. A smile sneaks across her face. “I have seen a lot of her lately. Sometimes she’s crying, but mostly she’s… _ill_. Is she finding _everything_ she eats disagreeable? _I_ am certainly finding it disagreeable.”

How can she? Myrtle inhabits toilets. How can she possibly find vomiting worse than…

 _Fuck_.

I have to remind myself that I am not an idiot.

I need to see Hermione _now_. “Thanks, Myrtle. You’re the best.” I blow her a kiss and run for the Charms corridor. 

As I near the girls’ bathroom, I see a terrified-looking second year emerging. Hufflepuff.

She sees me, eyes my Prefect badge—could someone please explain how, in all the Seven Hells, I still have _that_ when, by rights, I should be in Azkaban?—and begins to cry. Brilliant. “She’s in there, and she’s crying… and…”

I know I should know the girl’s name but I don’t. “It’s all right,” I say. Those words are being said rather a lot lately and they are always a lie. “Is she alone?”

The girl nods and mumbles something about Professor McGonagall. _She_ is someone neither myself nor Hermione need to see right now.

“No,” I say, as soothingly as I can, “there is no need to bother the Headmistress with this. I will take care of it. Now,” I say, trying to control the situation, “I am sure that she would prefer you not mention this to anyone. If you will please return to your classroom.”

 _Bloody_ fucking _hell_. It seems I am now emulating Professor McGonagall in both tone and word choice. 

The girl nods, looking soothed. It must have worked. As she rounds the corner, I flick my wand at the door and an “Out of Order” sign appears.

I step into the bathroom, which, fortunately, really is empty—except for Hermione, who is sitting on the floor beside one of the sinks, her knees pulled tight against her chest. 

I lock the door behind me.

“You’re pregnant,” I say.

She looks up, her face streaked with tears. “Who told you?”

“Myrtle.”

I sit down beside her, and she leans against me, sobbing. 

My heart is breaking for her. How could I have not known? How could I have not seen the worry growing in her eyes? Her pallor… except for the dark circles under her eyes and that greenish tinge that lit her face during Potions. “I’m so sorry, pet. I should have known. No one should have had to tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. I wasn’t going to tell anyone! Except… well…”

She hands me a small bottle that she could have only gotten from Snape. It is filled with a thick, red liquid that looks almost like blood—an abortion potion.

“I can’t do it!” she almost wails.

“Do you want to?” I ask, staring at the bottle as if it were filled with poison. Which it is. 

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

She starts to cry harder and words that sound like “parents,” “school,” “Harry,” and “Ron” slip out between sobs. I stroke her hair, wishing I knew what to say. I absolutely refuse to say that everything will be all right.

“I don’t even know whose baby it is!” she cries. 

I feel as though I have walked into a wall. 

A thrill that encompasses terror, excitement, and a sensation somewhat akin to drowning shoots through me. I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to come out steady. “Mine. The baby is mine.” 

“You don’t know that! There is no way you could _possibly_ know that!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say firmly, knowing perfectly well that it does. “Hermione, _I_ am the baby’s father. I will stand by you.” 

It is a useless promise and we both know it. 

I can love her with all my heart and whisper quiet words of encouragement when there is no one else to hear them, but until the Dark Lord is defeated, I can never be seen in public with her; to marry her would be a death sentence for all three of us. In a very real sense, it is Potter and Weasley who will carry her through this, not me. 

A tidal wave of jealousy hits me.

“I’ll always be here for you.” It comes out as little more than a whisper, my throat full of longing for a child that might not be mine, and that I will probably not live to hold. 

“Draco,” she says, “I need to know… who… But I can’t do it.” She pushes a tear-splotched book in my direction. A charm to determine paternity. 

“You can’t?” I scan the page. I couldn’t do it, but that means nothing; the charm is extremely complex, and I am only passable at Charms.

Besides, I don’t really want to know. This child could be my own. Or my sibling. Or… I can’t even think it. I am not prepared to spend too much time with the fact that this baby, which I have just claimed as my own, could possibly be anyone else’s.

I am terrified that it would alter my feelings irrevocably, that it would cause me to break—even if only in the deepest, most secret part of my heart—my seconds-old promise to Hermione. 

“The mother can’t work the charm on herself,” interrupts a voice from above us, an unnerving cross between eerie and ethereal, laced with a fair amount of irritation. Myrtle. “Any more than the father can. You’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

“No!” A wave of panic hits me, then another, and another. “No! No one can know! It’s too soon!” 

If the Dark Lord… my father… anyone… thought, even for one moment, that Hermione was carrying a child from that day, the child of a Pureblood Death Eater… her life would be worth nothing. Less than nothing. They would kill her in a heartbeat. To say nothing of Snape. 

Oh, and me. 

I stand up fast to bring myself face to face with Myrtle, but she floats a little higher off the ground, forcing me to continue looking up at her. “Please! Oh, god, Myrtle, please! Don’t tell anyone! Promise me you won’t tell anyone!”

“All right,” she pouts. “I won’t tell.” She won’t, either. She kept my secrets last year… even though I wish, now, that she hadn’t.

Hermione’s face has gone grey… and I can tell that she hasn’t really considered all of the possible consequences. 

“Draco, I’m sorry…”

“No!” I say, sitting back down, and pulling her to me. “No! You are _not_ sorry! You don’t have anything to be sorry about. None of this is your fault! None of it! Do you hear me?” I have to resist the urge to shake her. 

Tears stream down her face, and she is trembling. She takes the potion which, somehow, is still unbroken from my hand, and holds it up again. “I should take it then.”

It is taking everything I have not to snatch the vial from her hand and throw it against the wall. But I have taken enough from Hermione. I will not take this decision from her.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t know what I want to do!” She dissolves into helpless sobs, and I am reduced to stroking her hair again, and feeling inadequate. 

“Ugh!” Myrtle cries. “There’s _no_ reason to be this hysterical. Will you _please_ stop acting like you are the first witch that this has ever happened to?”

Myrtle floats above us, twisting one ponytail around a forefinger, looking irritated. I know that Myrtle generally believes that she is the only one in the entire castle entitled to hysterics, but still…

“Tom Riddle has always demanded that his _Death Eaters_ … attack… witches. Muggle-born witches. Even as far back as when he was a student here. Tests of loyalty, you know.” 

This revelation seems to have shocked Hermione out of her tears, though I can’t say that I am really all that startled. 

“Although,” Myrtle tilts her head, “I think you _are_ the very first to turn up pregnant….”

“But…” Hermione’s voice starts off soft, and then trails away.

“Ask Severus Snape, if you don’t believe me,” Myrtle says. And with a sigh and a splash she is gone. 

“Snape?” Hermione looks at me.

“I don’t know,” I say. But I have the horrible feeling that I do.

~*~

I arrive for detention, on time, as always.

“So now you know,” Snape says.

“I don’t know what I know.”

Snape is absolutely still for a moment. “You know that Hermione is pregnant.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Come and sit down, Draco. Wine or tea?” he asks.

“Firewhiskey.”

Snape’s eyebrows rise, but he nods once, and two tumblers of whiskey appear on the table. I pick up the nearest glass and drain it. Then I pace before the fire, refusing the invitation to sit down.

I walk back and forth three times, and then suddenly I am shouting. “Why didn’t you give her a contraceptive? I know there are morning after potions!” Pansy has a whole store of them in her room. “How could you have forgotten it?” 

I know I shouldn’t be shouting, but I cannot help it.

Neither, it seems, can Snape. “I didn’t forget, Draco! I couldn’t risk it! Do you have any idea how close she came to dying right there in front of me?”

My lungs refuse to take in enough air for me to voice the question I am afraid to ask. It comes out in less than a whisper. “How close?”

“Draco…” Snape looks like he might refuse to answer. Though I don’t really need him to say it anymore; the look in his eyes tells me all I need to know. The memory of Hermione’s frail and broken body in my arms verifies it.

“How close?”

“I was losing her. I thought I _had_ lost her. And then she saw you. And… she stabilized right then. But I couldn’t risk anything that would stress her system. Especially since I had to send you away.”

“I would have stayed.”

“That would have been extremely foolish.” 

“I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“I know that, Draco. I know that... but…”

“What?”

“Including allowing the world to think Ronald Weasley fathered her child?”

“We have no idea who the father is.”

“We know it isn’t Mr. Weasley.”

“I said I would do anything to keep her safe. Her and the child.”

Snape nods, and takes sip of his Firewhiskey. “Draco, sit. Please.”

I sink into the other chair, and a half-measure of whiskey appears in my glass. I resolve to sip it this time.

“I take it Hermione wishes to know the identity of the father?”

“I told her it was me.”

“I see,” Snape says, examining the glass of Firewhiskey in his hand.

“Hermione does, yes.”

“Bring her with you tomorrow. I think I can clear up a few things.”

“You can tell her… if it was… If I am…?”

“Yes.”

“But, Uncle Severus… what if it isn’t…?” I can’t breathe. 

Very gently he places his hand on mine. And squeezes.

~*~

The hallway to Snape’s office is much longer with Hermione, invisible, beside me. She has borrowed Potter’s invisibility cloak, and though I can’t see her, or even hear her, I can feel her beside me.

“ _Lis Toujours_ ,” I say, and push open the door.

“Good evening, Draco. Miss Granger,” Snape says, as the invisibility cloak slips off Hermione like liquid silk. “Hermione.”

And to my utter and complete shock, Snape takes two steps forward and gently places a kiss on Hermione’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Not wonderful.”

Snape’s smile is genuine, but sad.

“Can you… can you really tell us who the father is?” Hermione asks, her voice trembling.

“I can tell you if _Draco_ is the father,” he says. “The spell requires that both parents be present and willing to participate.”

“And if it’s not…?”

“If it’s not, and you still want to know, I believe I can come up with something.”

“Okay.” 

“Hermione,” I say, “I’ve told you, it makes no difference to me. But if you want to know…”

“I do.” Her voice is small.

At Snape’s nod I reach out my hand to him. With a small sharp knife, he slices open the tip of my finger. 

The pain is far greater than it has any right to be, and a drop of crimson blood wells up from the cut. Snape is holding my hand in a tight, but detached, grip. He squeezes and the drop falls neatly into a shallow white bowl.

“Hermione, are you _sure_ you want to know?” Snape asks as he reaches for her hand.

“I’m sure,” she says, and doesn’t so much as flinch as the blade pierces her skin.

The drop of her blood falls next to mine, two separate drops against the white of the bowl… and for a moment, nothing happens. Snape waves his wand and whispers a spell. And, quite suddenly, the two drops merge and rise a little. They sparkle, and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. 

The baby _is_ mine. 

For a moment all of my attention is focused on the little drops of blood that continue to grow, shimmering above the bowl. The head becomes distinct, then the arms and legs, and suddenly a whole baby, still in its shimmering bubble, appears before us.

“It’s a girl,” Hermione whispers. 

“It’s a girl,” Snape echoes. 

He waves his wand again, and the shimmering bubble that is my daughter disappears.

~*~

Hermione is in my arms before I realize I have moved.

Since the moment I brought her back from the Manor, I have been treating Hermione either as I would a skittish horse, or like a most treasured glass ornament—always afraid that any sudden movement I might make would cause her to bolt, or worse, cause her to shatter before my eyes. I have been unfailingly gentle with her. I have tried to be strong and supportive, yet deferential, determined not to cause her another instant of suffering. 

But even as I am reminding myself to move slowly, to give her the time to back away if she needs to, my mouth is crashing toward hers. 

And, _thank God_ , she is kissing me back as fiercely as I am kissing her, holding me as tightly as I am holding her… because I think that to release her at this moment would very literally kill me.

I am not holding her, but rather holding _on_ to her with all the desperation of a man clinging to a bit of exposed rock in a storm at sea, and it is not my mouth that is pressed to hers, but my very soul. Words that I do not know how to say, emotions I do not know how to feel have surfaced. My tears, cool and wet, overflow my eyes and pour down both our faces as blind terror, rage, and hope mix with a love so powerful that it is physically painful.

With herculean effort I pull back a little, sure that I am hurting her, sure that—at the very least—she will need to breathe, even though, in her arms, I feel as if I would never need to draw breath again.

She doesn’t let me go.

“I love you, Draco,” she says into the space between our mouths. “I love you.”

Words fail me utterly, and there is nothing I can do but to lower my mouth, again, to hers, tenderly this time.

~*~

Snape clears his throat. “If you’re quite finished, there are some conversations we need to have.”

With some effort, I release my grip on Hermione, and she sinks down into one of chairs by the fire. 

“I am assuming that you do not wish to take the potion that I gave you last week.”

Hermione shakes her head. “I know you think I should but…”

“I think no such thing. In fact, I have never though you should take it. You asked for it, and I gave it to you.”

“Oh.” Hermione looks somewhat unconvinced.

“Hermione, the Dark Lord has a tendency to sow the seeds of his own destruction. I can’t tell you why or how, but I very much believe that _this_ is one of those seeds. If you were to ask me, I would tell you to nurture it and see what sort of flower grows.”

She nods. “Like when Harry’s mother sacrificed herself to save Harry.”

“Yes.”

“You loved Lily Potter, didn’t you?”

Snape’s eyebrows rise. “What makes you think that?”

“ _Always Lily_.”

“Yes. Always Lily.”

I have been saying that password every night for almost two months and I never even thought…

“Is that what made you change sides… because he killed her?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I did wonder…”

Snape sighs. “It was a long time before that. Only weeks after I took the Mark. She was Lily Evans then… and we were all still in school when I had my… change of heart. Hermione, I have been a spy for a very long time….”

For a moment the room is silent, except for a quietly hissing potion in the far back of the room. 

“I don’t want to take the potion,” Hermione says quietly. “Lily was willing to die for Harry. I… This… it seems like such a small thing compared to stepping in front of death curse….”

It’s not a small thing. And I feel the weight of her decision heavy across my shoulders. 

“Very well,” Snape says, sounding the tiniest bit choked. “I think… I think Lily would have been proud of you. However, there is no doubt that your life—not to mention the baby’s—are in considerable danger.”

“I know.” Her eyes are round and frightened-looking. “Will I have to leave school?”

Snape actually smiles. “No, I don’t think so. Removing to a safe house is a possibility; I’m sure Andromeda would be happy to have you. But leaving so suddenly will cause comment… and may lead to questions that should not be asked. I think the best, and safest, choice—for everyone— is to stay here and not to try to hide the pregnancy, _per se_ , but rather to hide its existence long enough so that any connection with last summer can be easily denied. You’ll need an accomplice. Someone who is willing to claim that the baby is his.”

“Ron?” Her beautiful brown eyes search mine.

This is where I have to hand my beautiful daughter over to that idiot. Speaking is out of the question. I nod.

“He would be the best choice,” Snape agrees. “Speaking of which… have you told Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter yet?”

Hermione shakes her head. “They aren’t going to take it well.”

That is the understatement of the year.

“Shall we get it over with?” Snape pulls what looks like a galleon out of his pocket, fingers it for a moment, and puts it away.

“Is that one of my coins?” Hermione asks. 

“Actually, it’s one of Draco’s. I took the liberty of relieving Madam Rosmerta of it at the beginning of the summer.”

My heart skips a beat. It is sometimes too easy to forget about all the terrible things I did last year. 

“Potter and Weasley will be here in moments.”

“Professor Snape, they don’t know… about Draco, I mean. They don’t know that he… Please don’t tell them!”

He nods. “Probably wise.”

The minutes slip by. Snape pours tea and Hermione’s cup rattles in its saucer. I have resumed my, now habitual, pacing before the fireplace. 

There is a knock at the door, and Snape rises to open it.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, thank you for being so prompt.”

Hermione stands as they come in.

“Hermione!” Potter exclaims. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. But…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

It is absolutely impossible for me to not take a step closer to her. I do not even try to check the impulse. She leans into me as the room erupts in shouts.

It takes me a moment to realize that all of the shouting is coming from Weasley. Potter has gone silent and ashen. 

I am only understanding about half of what Weasley, now a dusky shade of burgundy, is saying and that is more than enough. I suspect Hermione understands everything. Her nails grip my wrist, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she has drawn blood. 

“Weasley, will you just shut up?” I shout.

“What the fuck are you even doing here, Malfoy? It’s not like this has anything to do with you! Or what? Are you on the contender list for paternity? You brought her back here, but then decided to give her a good fuck? What’s one more Death Eater, right?” 

Hermione lets out a strangled sound and claps her hands over her mouth. “ _OhmygodIthinkIamgoingtothrowup!_ ”

Luckily Snape’s rooms contain a very nice Potions lab; the stone sink is only a few feet away. This time it is Potter who rushes to her rescue, holding her hair as she vomits, sobbing, into the sink. 

I can feel the blood draining from my face. My fingers have turned to icicles. Sternly I remind myself that fainting would be decidedly unhelpful. 

Murder, on the other hand, is completely within the realm of possibility. 

“It won’t work, Professor Snape,” she says without lifting her head. 

Potter has very adroitly captured her hair and is, shocking as that seems, weaving it into a tight braid. 

“Hermione, I’m sorry,” Weasley says in a very small voice.

She looks up, but ignores him completely. “I want to go live with Andromeda. Is Tonks still living there? It would be like having an older sister. I’ve always wanted an older sister. You can just say that I ran away. That… that I couldn’t stand the… comments… anymore.” 

She leans back toward the sink, resting her head on one arm. I can’t tell if she’s going to vomit again, or if she is just crying. Potter rubs her back, but remains silent. He is looking at Weasley as if he has never quite seen him properly before. 

“I said I was sorry!” For the first time I spare a glance for Weasley. He does look truly horrified. 

“Sorry! Sorry??! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She stands up and turns to face him. Her face is still sheet-white, but she has a very dangerous-looking pink tinge high on her cheekbones. “I can’t do it! I’m sorry! I can’t pretend to love him, or be his girlfriend! I certainly can’t pretend that he is the father of my child! I won’t do it! After what he said! I don’t even want to be in the same room with him!

“Snape! Send him away!” She has been shrieking, but she issues her last statement of a royally pissed off queen. And not a modern queen, like the Muggle Queen Elizabeth, but rather one of the old-school ones. The beheading kind. 

Everyone in the room falters for a moment under the weight of that command. Good God, that witch is powerful!

Not surprisingly, Snape recovers first. “Oh, you _can’t_? You can’t pretend to be his girlfriend? You’ve scarcely been out of his company in all the time I have known you, yet this is too much for you? God damn it! What, precisely, do you think I _pretend_ to do every _fucking_ night of the week?” 

Oh, hello. Dams are bursting all over the place tonight. 

And, for a split second, it looks as though Hermione might need to move over and share that sink.

Hermione’s eyes are glittering, though I can’t quite tell if they are glittering in the kind of dangerous shooting sparks sort of way, or if she is about to cry again. 

“It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be Ron,” Harry says, touching her cheek. “It could be me.” 

Tears. “It can’t, Harry.”

“Potter, think about it!” My temper has flared, though I can’t quite put a finger on why, exactly. “That would only be slightly _more_ dangerous than telling them that it was—Than telling them the truth!”

Potter’s eyes lock on mine. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just can’t bear the thought of her… having to do… even one more thing she doesn’t want to do.”

“I think we’re all going to have to do a lot of things we don’t want to do… before this is over.”

He nods. “Yes. I think so, too.” And, for a moment, there is complete understanding between us.

The moment is broken by Weasley. “Wait. What about… Did she just say something about being my girlfriend…?”

Oh, right. Somebody has to tell Weasley the plan. 

Snape swallows visibly. “If, Mr. Weasley, the Dark Lord were to suspect that Miss Granger is carrying a Death Eater’s child, he would order someone—probably Draco, possibly me—to kill her.”

That particular fact had not yet occurred to me, and I suddenly feel that I might need to share that sink as well.

“On the other hand, for her to leave school abruptly might also arouse suspicion. So the plan, as it stands now, is to hide the pregnancy for as many months as possible and then, when that becomes impractical, for Miss Granger and an accomplice, to admit to an indiscretion—possibly over the Christmas holidays—that has resulted in a pregnancy. The most logical choice for that accomplice is you. Then, if all goes correctly…”

“I will have killed Voldemort before he finds out the truth,” Potter says, looking resigned. 

“Yeah… but why go through all that?” Ron asks. “Why don’t you just get rid of it? I mean it _is_ just some Death Eater’s spawn.”

Hermione lets out a little cry. Potter pulls her close. I stroke her hair.

“He didn’t mean it, love,” I lie. Because I think he really did mean it.

“Under the circumstances, Mr. Weasley, perhaps it would just be better to not give the father any consideration. Concentrate on the mother who, I believe, is supposed to be one of your best friends.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. I didn’t mean I _wouldn’t_ do it. I just thought… but if Hermione wants to keep it… of course… whatever she wants me to do… I’ll do it….”

“I want you to be quiet,” Hermione says. “And I think I’m going to throw up again.” And she promptly does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

Whatever his earlier misgivings might have been, Weasley turns out to be rather excellent at his new role of Hermione’s possessive boyfriend. His hands are always on her, her smiles always look a little forced.

Weeks pass.

We still touch behind the cover of our shared cauldron in Potions class and once, with a smirk, Hermione directs a couple of snotty comments at Snape and lands herself in detention. We spend a very enjoyable evening grading a truly appalling set of first year essays. 

Poor Professor Snape. Surely we weren’t ever _that_ stupid?

I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t even whisper it to Hermione. Nevertheless, Snape answers me.

“Oh, yes, Draco, you were,” he says, looking up from the novel he is reading. He looks _almost_ relaxed, sitting there by the fire, a glass of Muggle Scotch in hand. “Your beloved, maybe not quite so much.”

Hermione smirks.

“But close.”

~*~

Potter and Weasley have been gone from the castle for at least three days; Hermione is nervous and agitated. I know that they were given some sort of secret mission by Dumbledore himself—something that will supposedly help bring down the Dark Lord. I couldn’t even begin to guess where they go, or what they are actually doing.

But I do know that, if it weren’t for the baby, Hermione would be out there with them dodging some of the darkest and most dangerous curses in existence. And, even though I know it chafes her, I can’t help but be glad that she is here, in the relative safety of the castle. 

Relative. Because nowhere is really safe now. Especially for her. 

And because she spends long hours in the Restricted Section of the library surrounded by some of the darkest books imaginable. Books that make the ones in the Manor library look like children’s bedtime stories. 

Unless I am very much mistaken—and I would _very_ much like to be mistaken on this—the book she has open in front of her is bound with human skin. 

Three tables away, the books in front of me are herbals and books about potions theory; standard fare for someone researching variations in the blood replenishing potions, which is nominally how I am serving my detention tonight. 

And while I am actually doing that—and have the notes to prove it—my main reason for being in the library tonight is to keep Hermione company, in a manner of speaking, and to see that she makes it safely back to her dormitory tonight. 

We both have permission to stay in the library as long as it takes to finish our respective research projects. 

Three hours—and five sinister-looking books—later, Hermione finally stands up. 

“I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” she says. 

She walks through the Restricted Section to the little door at its very back where the darkest and most dangerous books are kept under lock and key. Hermione, naturally, has the key and—finally—rids herself of the last book. 

I do not ask her if she has found what she needs; she would tell me if she could.

Wordlessly, I cast a pair of Disillusionment Charms on us, make sure all the torches are out, and that everything is where it should be and escort Hermione out of the library. 

It is long after midnight, and even though I am so exhausted that my entire body physically hurts, I intend to make the walk to Gryffindor Tower last as long as humanly possible. The corridors are deserted, we are nearly invisible, and Hermione’s hand feels wonderful in mine. 

As we pass the Room of Requirement, a door shimmers into existence. With a small smile, Hermione pushes it open. 

I have only ever seen the room as the cavernous, cluttered Room of Hidden Things, but the space that appears before me is nothing more than a particularly luxurious bedroom, complete with a huge four-poster bed and a roaring fire in the fireplace. 

I take a step back. “Hermione, wait,” I stutter, acting as if the floor will suddenly tip and throw us onto the bed and into indecent acts. 

“It’s a _bed_ , Draco. I’m exhausted. You’re exhausted. Can we sleep here tonight?”

“I… um…” I sound like an idiot. “I wasn’t trying to suggest… anything… I mean…”

“Draco.” Her hand is on my mouth. “Right this minute, all I want is to get out of this uniform and into something that _fits_ properly and lie down on that bed next to you and _sleep_. Can we do that?”

I smile. “Of course.”

Hermione disappears behind a screen embroidered with a pastoral unicorn scene and emerges, a few minutes later, with her hair unbound and wearing a floor-length, long-sleeved, high-necked nightdress. She looks like the very model of Victorian propriety—except for the fact that she is alone, in a bedroom, in her nightdress. With me. 

“There is something back there for you, too,” she says a smile rippling through her words.

Oh, God, there is. Something that looks like it has fallen directly out of a novel by Charles Dickens. I am too tired to argue with the room—and I doubt it would care in any case—and I do not want to sleep in my school robes, so I put on the nightshirt. I try to ignore the fact that lace cuffs and fuzzy knees are not _really_ my thing. 

I peer out from behind the screen to see Hermione sitting in the middle of the bed, her legs pulled up, watching me.

“Do you care which side?”

“What? Oh. No. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Moments later I find myself on the softest bed imaginable with Hermione tucked against my left side as if she belongs there. 

She _does_ belong there.

I breathe in once, smelling springtime, and close my eyes.

~*~

The room is dark. The fire has burned to embers. Is it possible that I have actually been asleep? The smell of roses and fresh-cut grass is still in my nose, and there is a warm weight pressed against my side. I close my eyes again.

~*~

I awake. Really awaken. From a sound sleep from which I feel almost rested.

The room is lighter now, the fire higher, and Hermione is lying next to me, propped up on one elbow; she is watching me.

“You are beautiful when you sleep,” she says, tracing my cheekbones, then my eyebrows with her fingertips. “You look almost peaceful. Relaxed.”

“Almost?”

“What’s worrying you, Draco?”

“What isn’t?”

She holds my gaze, completely unperturbed by my tone.

“Father sent an owl yesterday. The Dark Lord has, specifically, requested my presence for the holidays.” 

“Oh.” 

She doesn’t say anything else. What else is there to say? In three days she will be leaving with Weasley—and Potter, thank goodness—for that hovel Weasley calls home. And I will be going straight to hell… in the form of Malfoy Manor with the Dark Lord in residence. 

Happy Christmas to me.

Hermione leans forward and kisses me, a gentle, undemanding kiss. 

“I’m afraid I am going to have to kill someone,” I whisper, giving voice, for the first time, to my absolute terror at the prospect. Snape has killed people. I know he has. I was _lucky_ over the summer holidays. I realize that now.

“You were going to kill Dumbledore,” she says in a most unhelpfully logical tone.

“But I didn’t,” I say. “And I’m not really sure that I was ever going to. And besides… back then I thought that the worst that could happen was that I _would_ kill him… or that I _wouldn’t_ and that the Dark Lord would kill _me_. Most of the time I wasn’t even sure which would be worse.

“But now… _Now_ I know better. Killing me. That would just be unfortunate. He could kill _you_. Or my mother. Or Snape. Or Potter, even—assuming there actually is something to that stupid prophecy.”

“Killing you would be a lot more than unfortunate,” she says.

“I love you, Hermione.”

“I know.” She smiles, and her smile looks delicious. There is no other word for it. 

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, she lowers her mouth to mine. I thread my fingers through her hair and, with a soft moan, she arches her head back, exposing her jawline and neck to my kisses. 

The ribbon at her throat has come undone, and I can clearly see her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. How could I have ever thought that that nightdress was modest?

That thought coincides neatly with my recollection of the fact that my nightshirt did not come with any shorts, nor, I am very sure, did Hermione’s nightdress. It would be so easy to slide away the fabric… and we are alone, safe in the Room of Requirement. 

Suddenly I am terrified. Stolen kisses are one thing, but this is very, _very_ real. 

Her hand slides down my belly, inching up the fabric of my nightshirt as it moves. When she reaches the hem, her hand hesitates, as if she is not quite sure what to do now. 

And I realize that there is nothing between us now except air.

And memories.

“Hermione… wait. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” she says, a tremble in her voice.

But I _have_ hurt her. Badly.

“It will be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I’m not sure I believe her, but her lips are on mine, asking, answering, even demanding, and thoroughly silencing any protests I might have made. With one fluid motion, she is on top of me, straddling me just below my hips.

“Draco, we _need_ this. We need to know that we can touch each other like this.” 

She takes my hand and brings it to the topmost of the six ribbons that are holding her nightdress closed.

“Pull,” she whispers. 

Fear, and maybe even common sense, don’t really stand a chance against human nature; the woman I love, the woman I want more than anything, the woman who is carrying my child has just ordered me to undress her.

I pull.

The ribbons are soft under my fingers, and while the nightdress is pure white, I notice that the ribbons are the palest pink. I pull the next… and the next… revealing breasts that are fuller than I expected them to be, and eventually, the gentle swell of her growing belly. 

She shrugs away the nightdress, then stills, looking down at me with an expression that I do not know how to read. I think, maybe, she doesn’t know, either.

I am afraid to touch her.

Her eyes are melted chocolate, her lips parted slightly.

Her fingers fumble as she unbuttons the buttons of my nightshirt; they are small, and there is a lot of them. Finally she pulls it apart; my scars are naked before her.

Potter’s dark curse has left me with my own lightning bolt, and it zig-zags around my heart. She traces it, first with her fingers, then leaning forward a little, with tender kisses. 

She leans forward a little more, bringing her lips to mine—and, suddenly, she is _there_ , her softness surrounding my hardness.

For a moment, neither of us move. Neither of us breathe. 

Her eyes search mine. She _hadn’t_ been sure. And she isn’t now. 

Trying to move nothing else, I turn my head slightly toward her left arm, and kiss the inside of her wrist. 

A wobbly smile appears on her face and slowly, carefully, as if any moment she is expecting crippling pain, she moves up, and slowly—very slowly—back down. 

Again. And again.

I can feel her trembling around me, and I do not move. I don’t breathe. I am not even sure that my heart is beating… because there is nothing in the whole wide world that should feel this good. 

Her tentative movements become more sure, and I risk a gentle touch. 

The sun rises in her eyes, and a weight lifts off my chest.

~*~

Hermione is stretched out on the bed, naked, like a cat before the fire. I run my hand gently along the swell of her belly. It is the strangest thing—not squishy at all, and while it is very clearly _part_ of Hermione, it seems to be somehow separate from her as well.

I place my hand flat, hoping for some movement, some sign of life. 

“Is she… is she really in there?” I ask, feeling sort of silly; I do know that she is.

Hermione giggles. “She’d better be. She’s a little young to be sneaking out, don’t you think? And, if she wasn’t, how would you explain this _bump_?" 

“Does she move around and stuff?”

“I’m sure she does. But I don’t feel her yet. Madam Pomfrey says any day, though.”

I address the bump. “Will you move for me, love?” 

It suddenly seems vital that I have some real connection with my daughter before I leave for the Manor. 

Hermione smiles. “You won’t be able to feel her move for weeks and weeks. It starts out feeling like tiny gas bubbles, according to Madam Pomfrey. Or, my mum says, like the nibble of a fish on a line; a quick tug, and then it’s gone. So fast you’re not even sure you felt it.”

“You’ve told your parents, then?”

“No! I mean… I wouldn’t know where to start….” Hermione stops for a moment, then continues more calmly, “I used to ask her all the time, what it was like when she was pregnant with me. And my mum would tell me stories about it while she brushed my hair.” 

I reach up to touch that hair. It has grown since the summer and floats heavily down her back. 

“I’ve never been fishing,” I say, almost wistfully. And if I had, it certainly wouldn’t have been with a pole and a line.

“I’ve only been a few times. My dad used to take me sometimes.”

Hermione’s stomach gives a loud rumble. I only barely refrain from commenting. 

“I’m hungry,” she says, glancing around. 

“Pet, the room is not going produce breakfast for you.”

“Why not?” she says testily. 

“Food is one of the five exemptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” I say, and her eyes flash dangerously. 

_Pregnant witch. Hungry pregnant witch. It might have just been better to keep quiet there._

“Oh. Right.” 

She doesn’t say anything else, and I surreptitiously let out the breath I have been holding. 

“Hermione, here,” I hand her nightdress to her. “Cover up for a second.” 

When she has pulled on the nightdress, I clear my throat: “Dobby,” I say clearly, “could I ask you a favor?”

He appears with a crack. “How can Dobby assist Young Master?” the house elf squeaks. 

“I’m not your master anymore, Dobby,” I say.

“Dobby knows that, sir. But now that Young Master is a good wizard, Dobby is always happy to help Young Master.”

I decide now is not the time for a philosophical discussion on whether or not I am a good wizard. “Can you bring us some food?”

“Of course! What would Young Master… or Miss,” he adds, turning to Hermione, “like?”

“Cinnamon buns,” Hermione says almost guiltily. “And orange juice. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Miss! Dobby is happy to help!” With another crack he is gone.

“You know,” I say, thoughtfully, it’s Saturday. If Dobby really doesn’t mind bringing us food once in a while, we can stay here all day.” 

“You know, I think I would like that _very_ much. So long as Dobby doesn’t mind, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration was taken directly out of Deathly Hallows, though, in the book, it was Ron who said it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**
> 
> When I promised _months_ ago that I hadn't abandoned this story, I had no idea it would take so long for this next chapter to get up. I am so very sorry.  
>  I appreciate all your patience!

The last night before we all leave for the Christmas Holidays, Snape opens an especially nice bottle of wine and we sip it—mostly in silence—before the fire. 

I am as ready as I can be.

I have brushed up on my Occlumency and I have a cache of memories involving Hermione, memories wherein I am indifferent or repulsed to show the Dark Lord, should he inquire. Truthfully, the repulsed memories were easy to come by, what with Weasley running his hands all over her whenever he gets the chance. The fact that I am disgusted _for_ her, rather than _by_ her, should not be discernable. 

Snape does not believe that the Dark Lord cares about Hermione at all; he feels she has passed through his attention and landed safely on the other side. The danger lies from my father and Bellatrix—though their prying is almost necessary; the supposed relationship between Ron and Hermione must come to light. 

Snape has taught me a slicing hex that shines turquoise. In the heat of battle, no one will ever notice that I am not aiming to kill. Though if the Dark Lord should issue an order—to murder, torture, or rape—no fancy spell work will save me.

This thought is added to the litany which keeps me up at night, but only here—in the presence of Snape—do I allow it to make my hands shake and my skin turn clammy. 

I am learning. And I hate it. 

Given enough time I wonder if I will be able to compartmentalize completely, the way Snape does. 

My stomach flips over. 

Potter had better just _fucking_ kill the Dark Lord before that happens.

I take another sip of wine. 

I don’t mean to ask him. But the words suddenly slip out. “Uncle Severus, how many people have you killed?”

Snape, I notice, does not drink before he answers. “Thirty-seven,” he says, softly, but with perfect diction. 

“And…?”

“Nine. Including the only girl I have ever loved.”

“Lily? Potter’s mother?”

Snape looks at me, his gaze cold. “She was Lily Evans then.”

_Lis Toujours. Always Lily._

“Draco, it was the culmination of the worst mistakes I have ever made. And I refuse to allow you to romanticize it. I had plenty of choices and I chose the wrong ones. I did not inherit my Dark Mark, as it were, I _sought_ it out. I thought it was an honor. My blood did not run cold at the idea of torture, or even murder and rape. Then.”

Snape isn’t really telling me anything I hadn’t already known, anything he hasn’t told be before. But the brokenness in the man before me is new. 

Or maybe it isn’t, and I was just too scared to see it before. 

“I went into the Forbidden Forest that night—it was a beautiful spring night; the breeze was warm, balmy even—knowing _exactly_ what I would be doing. It was a rite of passage and there were three of us, meeting an older Death Eater who promised our _present_. I had no other thought in my head than being the perfect Death Eater; they were my friends now. Was I dismayed that our present turned out to be Lily? Maybe. Maybe not. I had wanted her for a very long time, after all. And she had rejected me.”

I swallow a bit of bile along with any comment I might have made; what possible response is there to such a statement? 

“Did I enjoy it?” Snape whispers. “God help me, I did.” 

He stares at the wine in his goblet for an endless moment, still not drinking. 

“We left her there, in the woods. And the four of us went back to the common room to celebrate and congratulate ourselves. It was after my first shot of firewhiskey that I truly realized what I had done. What I had become.”

“You didn’t just…leave her, did you?”

“Of course not,” Snape says shortly, sounding slightly more like himself. “I slipped a sleeping draught into the whiskey and went back out to find her. She had made it almost to the lawns. I don’t know why, but she let me pick her up. She buried her face in my cloak and sobbed and sobbed.

“Professor McGonagall met us at the door. She must have known what I had done, but she let me carry Lily up to the hospital wing, let me hold her hand while the nurse healed her. She even let me kiss her forehead before she took me to see Dumbledore. I thought he would send me to Azkaban for the rest of my life. Instead he made me his spy.”

Snape took the sip of wine he had been denying himself. 

“I went into that room with the intention of surrendering my freedom forever—I just hadn’t anticipated the sort of cell he would put me in.”

“Lily never forgave you?”

“Of course not. She accepted me. Tolerated me. She even appreciated the position it put me in. No one, other than she and Dumbledore ever knew what I had become—and why. But forgive me? Never. 

“I had known her since we were children. Since before Hogwarts. She thought I was the one person she could trust above all others—and I should have been. I failed her utterly. Of course she never forgave me.”

Snape stares at his wine glass for a very long time before taking another sip.

“Draco, I had to willingly commit an act of great evil to learn that I wanted to be good. It will haunt me for the rest of my life. That would have been your fate had you killed Dumbledore that night.”

“Is it supposed to make it better that you killed him instead?” I snap.

“Of course it is,” Snape snaps back. “You are not a killer, Draco. What you do—however awful it is—is done in the name of Light. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure it’s enough,” I say.

“It will have to be.”

He drains his glass.

~*~

The Christmas holidays stretched endlessly.

Days without Hermione in them are dark, but I did not dare to bring even _thoughts_ of her with me to Malfoy Manor. There I am a Death Eater, the Dark Lord’s loyal servant.

I watched as my two best friends knelt for their Dark Marks and rose again, grinning manically.

I led raids and turned my classmates into killers. Though, thanks to the turquoise green light of Snape’s Slicing Hex, I have not yet wielded the wand that has committed murder. 

Snape brought me back to Hogwarts a day early, and I am sitting in the common room, watching it slowly fill back up with students, and trying to concentrate on my Potions essay. It is long and complicated, and I suspect that Snape will actually put me in a cauldron-scrubbing detention if I don’t manage to finish it by tomorrow. 

Death Eating, as it turns out, is a very time-consuming activity. 

I long to leave the common room, to find Hermione. I will not feel whole again until I can hold her in my arms. But I can’t disappear tonight. Term—and my detentions—do not resume until tomorrow. And I have to complete this _god damned_ essay. 

Post-holiday cheer is running high, and I miss the peace of Snape’s office. Despite my best efforts, snatches of conversation find me. 

I ignore discussions of Christmas presents and Quiddich teams. The girls are in the corner and I can hear them discussing the best spells for eyeliner….

I try to tune them out….

“Do you know, I think that Granger Mudblood may be knocked up?”

I freeze.

Pansy arches a skeptical eyebrow at Daphne. 

“I thought she was looking a little… round… when she got off the train today,” Daphne defends herself. 

I feel Pansy’s eyes brush mine. 

“After what happened to her over the summer? Of course she isn’t,” Pansy drawls. “I’d be surprised if she ever let a man near her again.” I watch as she leans back, balancing her wand on the tip of her finger. “Those were Christmas cookies, I assure you.”

Daphne giggles.

“I don’t know,” Astoria argues. She is Daphne’s little sister and the brains—and beauty—of that particular operation. She’s young, though. “Aren’t she and Ron Weasley together? She went home with him for Christmas.”

Daphne laughs again. It is a grating sound. “Don’t be silly, Tory. Pansy is right. I mean, who would want a bushy-headed, toothy, Mudblood, anyway? Especially a _used_ one.”

I want to vomit. Or cry. I force myself to loosen my grip on my quill before it cracks.

The girls titter. 

Pansy’s laugh is forced. I know it. “The Mudblood really went home with the Blood Traitors, Astoria? Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” Astoria purrs. “And they were holding hands when they got off the train.”

“Well, I don’t suppose a Blood Traitor can really expect to do much better than a used Mudbood,” Pansy says. She allows her wand to fall into her hand. She holds up the other, examining her nails, before directing the wand at a fingernail, adding another level of perfection to her already perfect manicure. 

“All right. I’ll play,” Pansy says with a wicked grin. “If she is with that Weasel King, who wants to bet she really _is_ in the… erm… family way by Easter? I mean the Weasleys breed like rabbits anyway, and I’m pretty sure they can impregnate just by holding hands.” She laughs. “That’s why we mustn’t touch, girls.” 

Pansy meets my eyes again, both the corner of her mouth and an eyebrow rise almost imperceptibly; she is warning me that an explanation is about to be demanded. Pansy I can deal with, and I force myself to relax, returning to my essay in a state that is at least capable of writing a complete sentence. 

Enough of that disturbing topic!” Pansy says gaily. “I want to show you what Blaise got me for Christmas….”

“I can’t believe you accepted anything from him,” Daphne whispers. “I heard he refused an invitation from the Dark Lord….”

~*~

The common room empties slowly. I finish my essay. And look up to find myself alone with Pansy.

“I will tell you nothing,” I tell her. 

“I’m not asking, am I?” Pansy says with a snotty little tilt of her head. “I already know everything I need to know. I’m a little fuzzy on a couple of the _whys_ , but, as you say, you are going to tell me nothing.”

“Pans….” I don’t really _love_ her. But we were in diapers together and she is _comfortable_. Like a cup of hot chocolate, or that place you go to just be yourself. I thought lost her forever when she saw my Mark… but we’re mostly past that now.

“It’s all right, Draco. That conversation is over. Daphne won’t bring it up again.”

“And if she does? Or Astoria does?”

“Daphne is afraid of me. Rightfully so, of course. And, given that Astoria thinks she’s going to marry you…”

_“What?”_

Pansy ignores me. It’s not a bad match, actually. If the Dark Lord hadn’t returned and turned my life upside down, I would have happily married Pansy; politics and Dark Marks have rendered _that_ an impossibility. Astoria has no way of knowing that my life has been turned upside down yet _again_ and that if I live long enough to marry anyone, it certainly won’t be her.

“I will simply remind her that it is beneath the future queen of Malfoy Manor to discuss the breeding patterns of Mudbloods.” She smiles. “Don’t worry, Draco, it really _will_ be all right.”

For the life of me, I really can’t imagine how. But, just for tonight, I will believe her.

~*~

Weeks pass smoothly.

Potter and Weasley are often gone from the castle. Longbottom, I think, is now going with them.

Many evenings find Hermione still immersed in those god-awful Dark texts. I am sure reading them is bad for the baby. Hermione, I think, doesn’t really disagree with me, but she insists that _not_ reading them would be worse for the baby. 

I can’t really disagree with her. 

Tonight, however, she—and I, two tables over—are working on nothing more sinister than Potions homework. 

I feel Pansy swoop by me.

_Fuck._ If I know anything about Pansy—and I happen to know a _lot_ about Pansy—there is every chance that this will end poorly. 

“May I join you?” Pansy asks, settling herself in the chair opposite Hermione without waiting for the invitation. 

I think, perhaps, it wouldn’t have been forthcoming anyway. Potter and I have spent our entire school careers at each other’s throats; it has been no different for Hermione and Pansy. Though, I suppose, if Potter and I can skirt around friendship, perhaps they stand a chance? 

At least I don’t think that one of them will try to eviscerate the other.

Probably.

“What do you want, Parkinson?” 

“Peace _Hermione_.” Pansy holds up a perfectly manicured perfect hand and very effectively cuts off anything Hermione might be about to say. I wasn’t lying when I told Crabbe and Goyle that Pansy is a lot like my Aunt Bella. Except deep down—okay, _very_ deep down— Pansy is a nice person. And, of course, not even remotely in thrall with the Dark Lord.

“I’m here to help you.”

Hermione’s eyebrows arch. “That’s a first.”

“Yes, I expect it is.” I can’t see her face, but I can tell by the set of her shoulders that Pansy is wearing a very haughty put-upon expression. 

“I am sure, _Pansy_ , that I do not need any help from _you._ ”

“You’re wrong there. Your glamour spells are appalling. If your mother was a _witch_ she would, no doubt, have taught you how to do a proper one. Seeing as how she isn’t… it looks as though I shall have to educate you instead.”

“Oh, and why would _you_ , of all people, do that?”

“Why indeed?” Pansy doesn’t look at me, of course, but her head tilts slightly in my direction. “Look, Hermione, there is something you need to know. My family does not, in any way support He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We are _not_ Death Eaters.”

“Please. You’ve always been all about blood purity.”

“Thinking that Wizarding blood should remain pure doesn’t make one a supporter of You-Know-Who!” she hisses. “ _He_ cares nothing for blood-purity, other than using it as a tool to gain power. Why he, himself, is a half-blood!”

“ _I_ knew that.”

“Yes, of course you did. _You_ know everything. So you should _also_ know that just because a person does not believe that Muggles and Muggleborns should have any part in the Wizarding World does not mean that they should be… murdered… or tortured… or used as… _sport_ … simply because they have a different lineage.” Every last bit of _Pansy_ has fallen from her voice. She sounds like she is holding back tears. She sounds like she did the night I told her that Aunt Bella had insisted that I take the Dark Mark.

Hermione pales. And suddenly, for both their sakes, I want to put a stop to this conversation. But there is no good way for me to do that. 

“I know what happened… over the summer,” Pansy says. 

“Everyone does.” 

“I know. It wasn’t right. _None_ of it was right. I’m so sorry.” 

“I… thank you.” 

“Out of curiosity, why didn’t you use a morning-after potion?” 

“I… wait… _what_?” 

I can almost see Pansy roll her eyes. “I did tell you your glamour spells need work.” 

“Who else…?” 

“No one, so far as I know. But if we’re going to keep it that way, you _do_ need to come with me and learn how to do a proper glamour charm.” Pansy stands up. “I don’t really have all night.” 

Hermione gives up all pretense and looks right at me, her eyes questioning. 

I nod, wishing I am _really_ sure they aren’t going to murder each other when they leave my sight. 

__

~*~

I don’t know what in hell Pansy teaches her, but the next time I see Hermione, she looks _radiant_. I can’t see any obvious makeup spell—none of Pansy’s over-done cat-eyes, thankfully—but her eyes sparkle, her curls are more defined, and something about the way her robes are hanging hides any hint of a belly. In fact, she looks thinner than I have ever seen her look, and healthier than she has looked all year.

It can’t last; you can’t _actually_ glamour away a pregnant belly, but Pansy has bought us time. Weeks, maybe even months, and I am grateful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please heed the warnings!**

“Mr. Malfoy, please say behind a moment,” Professor McGonagall says as she dismisses the last Transfiguration class before the Easter holidays. 

I fight the feeling of dread that is forming in my chest; Professor McGonagall cannot be holding me back for any positive reason.

“Professor?” I ask as I approach her desk. “Is Hermione…?”

“As far as I know she is quite well, Draco. This is about another matter entirely.” 

I allow myself to relax fractionally. 

“I feel the need to hire a Transfiguration apprentice next year,” she says. “I would like to offer you the position.” 

I can feel my heart actually stop. I want this. Transfiguration. Teaching. It is all I have ever wanted. 

“Me? But… Professor…” I am stammering. “Thank you, Professor, but next year…” 

_I could be dead._

Almost as if she heard me, a strange, empty look crosses Professor McGonagall’s face. “I realize, Draco, your situation is precarious at the moment. Nevertheless, the position is yours if you want it.”

“More than anything,” I say in what comes out disturbingly like a whisper. “But why me? Hermione…”

“Is certainly a very talented witch.” Professor McGonagall gives me a sad smile. “Draco, I own you an apology. Many apologies, actually. Professor Snape has always been obliged to outwardly display his favoritism, given his… other obligations. I, who have no excuse whatsoever, was horrified to realize that I have done the same thing. You are one of my brightest students and you have a talent for Transfiguration that far exceeds anyone else in my class. You deserve this chance.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Draco, you are not the man I expected you to be. I have treated you very badly for your entire school career simply because I could not see past your father and his associates.”

Crying in front of Professor McGonagall is _not_ an option.

She places one hand on my shoulder. “I am so very sorry.”

~*~

The Easter Holidays are marginally better than the Christmas ones. I am allowed remain at Hogwarts, though with the understanding that I must be able to report to the Dark Lord whenever _He_ summons me.

So few students are present in the castle, that I am taking risks that I probably shouldn’t, and I am in the library with Hermione, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood when I feel the Dark Mark burn.

It _hurts_ , and I know I have gasped out loud when everyone looks at me. 

“I have to go,” I say. After the initial flash of pain, the burning dulls, but will then get progressively stronger until I am in the Dark Lord’s presence. It is a long walk through the castle grounds to a place where I can Apperate. 

Hermione’s eyes are wide and her face is pale. 

It was dangerous enough to sit here. I can’t kiss her in public—especially in front of her _boyfriend’s_ sister, I remind myself. The Dark Lord must be impatient; the Mark is already starting to hurt again. 

It is Luna’s hand that touches me. “We’ll take care of your things, Draco.”

I turn and walk from the room. By the time I reach the marble staircase, I am running. I sprint across the grounds and turn on my heel as soon as I cross the border out of Hogwarts. Thank god, I can simply Apperate into the Manor; if I had to walk—or, in this case, run—through the Manor’s gardens to reach the Dark Lord, I would be screaming in agony before I even reached _Him_. 

Less than a half-hour later, I feel the familiar hook at my navel as we are all portkeyed to wherever it is we are going. Only Percy Weasley knows. It is his first mission as a Death Eater and I hope he doesn’t get us all killed. 

He is someone whom I have _never_ liked. Power hungry, a Ministry disgrace, and estranged from the rest of the Weasley clan, I suppose that I should not have been surprised to see him at his first Death Eater meeting. 

But I was.

And even more so when I realized that the “gift” he had brought for the Dark Lord—a victim to torture for _His_ amusement—was a twelve-year-old redheaded girl. He disemboweled her for our viewing pleasure. 

I wasn’t the only one who was nearly sick. 

The Dark Lord, naturally, was very impressed and Percy Weasley rose up the Death Eater ranks like one of his brothers’ fireworks. 

We land with a jerk in a daffodil-strewn Muggle garden. Inside, in what I take to be the kitchen, I can see two people moving. The man is tall, his stature and movements reminding me a little of Arthur Weasley. The woman is short and has quite a lot of bushy hair. 

_Fuck_.

I have the terrible feeling that I know _exactly_ where we are. 

I am not in a position to draw a line in the sands of morality and refuse to kill Hermione’s parents. I may be in a position to delay a bit. I hope there is something to delay for. 

Weasley motions Montague around one side of the house. He motions for the rest of us to follow him. Behind his back, I send Crabbe and Goyle after Montague. They have spent their entire lives obeying my orders and do not question me. As Weasley approaches the house I send a silent trip jinx his direction. He trips, knocking over a bird bath, which falls against the house with a clatter.

The figures in the kitchen stop moving and Goyle runs to my side, inquiring after my well-being. 

I am about to murder my child’s grandparents. And I fear all I have done is add to their terror. _Not so well, thanks for asking._

A moment later, though, Weasley has composed himself and he signals Montague and Crabbe to enter the front of the house while the rest of us burst in on the kitchen. 

Hermione’s mother screams and the bottle of wine she is holding drops to the floor; the wine that is now splattered all over the kitchen looks, disturbingly, like fresh blood.

I hear a cluster of tiny pops in the kitchen which materialize into the forms of Fred and George Weasley and a woman whom I assume is my cousin, Tonks, though I can’t be sure; her appearance seems to change every time I see her.

Goyle falls at my feet just as Crabbe and Montague burst into the room. 

The Grangers kitchen erupts into a haze of red, blue, and purple flashes. For my part, I manage to cast a Shield Charm around Hermione’s mother, and employing Snape’s trick, use the slicing hex to deflect a jet of green light aimed at one of the twins—Fred, I think—as he spins out of the kitchen, holding tight to Hermione’s father. George disappears with Hermione’s mother and then, with a flash of light that knocks me off my feet and knocks Montague out completely, Tonks is gone.

They are safe.

It takes me several moments to realize that we, most definitely, are not.

~*~

I stand in my family’s formal drawing room beside Montague, Crabbe and Goyle, looking up at the Dark Lord who has enthroned himself by the fireplace. Percy Weasley stands at his side though, at this very moment, it is clear that he would rather be anywhere else.

The Dark Lord’s eyes shift from Weasley and scrape down the line of my classmates to land on me.

“Draco, my boy, you have an incredible talent for somehow managing to leave alive those whom I wish you to kill.” The Dark Lord’s voice slips around me, hissing like the snake he is.

I shrug. I can feel myself taking on a Snape-like attitude that will, hopefully, save my life. “It wasn’t _my_ brothers that rescued them, my lord.” 

“Indeed.” The Dark Lord’s gaze shifts back to Weasley. He pales, his freckles sticking out like tiny ink-splatter marks on a white parchment.

“No!” If Weasley’s heart hadn’t been in his throat, it might have been shout, instead, it comes out more like a squeak. “It was Malfoy! Malfoy let Hermione go this summer and then he told the Order what we were doing so her parents escape!”

The Dark Lord knows this can’t be true. I hadn’t known where we were going to until the moment we arrived. But, of course, Weasley had. As, in all likelihood, had Snape, but the Dark Lord views Snape’s loyalty to as unshakeable. I wonder if Snape had been able to contact the Order before we arrived, or if Weasley’s idiotic choice to land directly in the Grangers’ garden set off some sort of alarm.

“Those were the _Mudblood’s_ parents?” I ask. “Given that she’s the little Gryffindor golden child, why the _fuck_ did you send us right into her parent’s garden? Did it not occur to you that there would be some sort of protection around them?”

Weasley is still pale, but the tips of his ears are now infused with a slight pink.

“Or was that the plan? She’s your brother’s girlfriend, isn’t she?”

Weasley begins to stutter his denials but we both know that there is nothing he can say. I have signed Percy Weasley’s death sentence. 

This, in and of itself, does not bother me. He is a traitor to everything I, now, hold dear. He betrayed Hermione tonight. _He_ knew; _he_ did nothing. He may well have chosen Hermione’s parents as a target. But Molly and Arthur Weasley have been kind to me and I do not want to be the one that has to tell them that their son is dead. They were hoping that he would see the error in his ways and return home; now it will never happen.

~*~

After what seems like an eternity, we are dismissed and I Apparate, alone, to Hogsmeade. The path up to the castle winds endlessly before me. I want to run, but I do not really have the strength. It is well past midnight, and while my bout with the Cruciatus Curse was nowhere near the worst I have ever had, it was a long way from pleasant.

I pull myself into the castle and up the stairs; the hospital wing is one of the few places at Hogwarts that Hermione’s parents can be. 

A terrified scream echoes as I walk into the hospital wing. 

_Damn!_ In my haste to get back to Hermione, I have forgotten to take off my god _damned_ Death Eater robes. No doubt I have terrorized Hermione’s parents once again. I yank them off, heedless of the buttons, and throw them onto the nearest bed.

“Draco!” Hermione runs into my arms. “Are you all right?”

Her eyes are red; she has been crying.

“Yes,” I answer, almost truthfully, and for a moment, I just hold her. “Is everyone else okay? Your parents… Fred?” 

I scan the room. Her parents are huddled in one corner looking terrified but otherwise well, and a supine figure, closely attended by Molly Weasley lies in one bed, revealing that Fred Weasley is alive, though possibly severely injured. 

_Fuck_. That was not my intention. 

With some force of will, I release Hermione and approach the bed.

“You know you’re a little shit, Malfoy, don’t you?” Fred asks. 

I am not sure what to say. I just saved his life. And cursed him. 

“Bloody brilliant, of course, but still a little shit.”

“Fred? I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… are you okay?”

“Just fine, thanks,” says a voice from behind me.

“Fred?” I say a little weakly. I have been trying very hard to keep them straight, and though rumor has it their mother is not one hundred percent accurate, I cannot help but be a little miffed that I have gotten it wrong. Again.

“In the flesh.”

 _George_ , is on the bed, blood-stained bandages wrapped around his head. _Shit._ In terms of reluctant Death Eating, a good slicing hex has the benefit of being a light turquoise that looks an awful lot like deadly green the commotion of a fight. On the other hand, they do… well… slice rather badly. 

“George,” I say, putting some emphasis on the name, “how are you feeling?”

“Saint-like,” George says.

“Pardon me?”

“Saint-like. You know, holey?” 

“Erm…”

“Draco,” Ginny says, appearing at my elbow, “I’m afraid you sliced off his ear.”

I blanch. 

“It’s okay!” she says quickly. “Madam Pomfrey says she can have it grown back by morning. He’ll be as good as new!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Fred says, looking down at his twin. “Malfoy, it is completely possible that you have completely and irreversibly damaged his sense of humor. Saint-like? Honestly. The whole of ear-related humor to work with… and he goes for saint-like!” 

Are they joking with me? It feels so incredibly… normal… 

And then I remember: Percy Weasley is dead. And I am the one who has to tell his family.

It must have shown on my face, because I can feel the atmosphere of the room shift. I glance around the room… a delaying tactic as much as anything.

Hermione’s parents are standing by the far window and appear to be keeping Arthur Weasley between themselves and… well me. They are watching this exchange and looking distinctly uneasy. I can hardly blame them. 

“Draco,” Hermione, says, tucking herself into my arms, “you’re shaking! Was it… was _He_ very angry?” 

I nod, downing the potion she presses into my hand, though I know it won’t really help. This time. Yes, I am shaking, but even Snape cannot invent a potion that will make delivering this kind of news any easier.

I look past Hermione and into Molly Weasley’s brown eyes. “Yes. He was very angry. But not so much at me.”

Mrs. Weasley sinks down onto the bed and George picks up her hand. Fred wraps his arms around her. “Percy?” she says weakly. 

“I’m so sorry. He was leading the raid,” I say, head down. 

They would have already known this, but as they all stare at me, I can’t help but feel that this is somehow my fault; that it is _my_ fault that Percy Weasley chose to abandon his parents for the Dark Lord… and then prove to be as unworthy of a Death Eater as he was a son. That it is my fault that he is dead.

“Is he… will he be…?” She cannot finish because we all know that, no, Percy Weasley is not, and never will be, okay. 

“Mrs. Weasley, I… He’s dead.” Hermione’s hand is tight on mine. “I’m so sorry.”

They wanted him to see the error of his ways. They clung to the idea that if _Draco Malfoy_ could repent and join the Order of the Phoenix, then surely their son could. 

Of course, they weren’t there when he murdered that little girl; people serve the Dark Lord for many reasons. But only some of them truly enjoy it. 

She begins to cry. “How?” she asks.

“Molly…,” Mr. Weasley, says, placing his hand on her shoulder. 

“It was quick,” I offer, thankful that this, at least, is true. It wasn’t meant to be. But Crabbe, whose Latin would disgrace a Medieval parish priest, mispronounced the Scourging Hex with which we were meant to be flaying Weasley alive, and the result was a rather incomplete Entrail-Expelling Curse. Nevertheless, it was over in a matter of seconds, with large portions of Weasley’s insides splattered all over Crabbe’s outsides. 

There is no way on god’s green earth that I would burden them with this information. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

~*~

The Weasleys have circled around each other in their grief, and I suddenly—inappropriately, maybe—realize that I cannot remember the last time my mother touched me with affection.

In fact, I think the last time any mother touched me with affection it was Mrs. Weasley, smoothing my collar, calling me dear, and serving me second helpings without asking. 

I feel like I am intruding on their grief, and I am relieved when Hermione squeezes my hand a little and then leads her parents out of the ward. Still, technically, in the hospital wing, we stand in a tiny alcove with a window overlooking the lake. The fact that I can see the lake, an eerie grey expanse, tells me that morning is not far away.

On the other hand, the looks Hermione’s parents are giving me suggest that there is still plenty of night left. 

“Mum, Daddy, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, my parents, Jean and Roger Granger.”

Hermione’s mother looks like she has been crying. Her father looks like he might like to murder me. 

I can do this. I swore my allegiance to Lord Voldemort and then betrayed him. I can meet Hermione’s parents.

I take a deep breath, smile at Hermione’s mother and extend my hand to her father. “Mr. Granger? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He looks pointedly at my hand, but makes no move to shake it. “It’s _Doctor_ Granger.”

I feel a flash of anger, but it is _not_ , I insist to myself, because he is a Muggle using that tone with me. I am angry at myself for forgetting his proper title. 

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” I feel a little like a first-year Potions student.

“Young man, you have some explaining to do.”

Who has just melted a cauldron.

“Yes, sir,” I find myself saying, although I really have nothing to say. I don’t want to lie to her parents. I _do not_ want to tell them the truth. 

As of this evening Hermione still hadn’t told her parents of her pregnancy. But no glamour spell, no matter how perfectly cast, could have hidden her almost seven-month belly from her own mother. The proverbial kneazle is out of the bag now.

“Draco _Malfoy_ ,” he says, making my name sound like filth. “I know all about you. One of those Purebloods, aren’t you? You think you’re better than everyone else. And my daughter, just some little _Muggle-born_ toy for you to play with. Isn’t that right?”

My blood runs cold. A year ago he would have been right. That is certainly what my father and uncle would say. But… _I am not them_.

“Daddy! Stop it! I told you—”

“Oh, yes, you told me. Some knight-in-shining- armor nonsense. And what, you repay him with a good thank-you shag? Hermione, I’m disgusted with you.” Dr. Granger gives her a hard look, and she slides closer to me. Her fingers are leaving bruises on my arm and I don’t care. 

I can’t help but take a protective step in front of her. She is trembling, and she lets me. “Sir… Dr. Granger…” I stop, realizing that if I defend her, I will be betraying her as well.

“Roger!” Hermione’s mother—also a Dr. Granger, I remind myself—sounds appalled. 

Hermione’s father’s face has taken on a slightly reddish hue and he turns toward his wife. “What _were_ we thinking of? Spells, potions… a school no one’s ever heard of? She should be on her way to Oxford, but instead she’s lounged about this dilapidated old ruin learning how to turn teacups into rats…. Rats, I say! What good are rats to anybody?”

Part of me itches to explain the magical theory behind Transfiguration. Part of me wants to snap that a rat would be turned _into_ teacup, not the other way around. Part of me is wondering if Hermione would be upset if I turned _him_ into a teacup. That would be tricky—he’s much larger than a teacup—but I think I could do it. Or possibly a set of bagpipes, which would be easier and a little more appropriate. I could always change him back. Later. 

“And now look at her! Her future is ruined… all because of some… _tryst_ … with this arrogant little pure-blooded wizard who thinks she’s dirt!” He, very obviously, turns to Hermione. “You, young lady, have forgotten who you are!”

“How dare you, sir!” My temper has snapped. “Hermione is a _witch_! She is a bright, talented, _beautiful_ witch. She is the top of our class in everything and she is the kindest… most generous…” My voice cracks in a very un-Pureblood sort of way. “She is the bravest person I have ever met. 

“That… day…” I want to sneer, but I can’t because the terror and sheer horror of that day is still so very, very real. He belittles it, but I think, maybe, storybook princes are not given enough credit. They go in, usually over the bones of fallen comrades, to slay monsters and dragons and _they_ don’t know they’re guaranteed a happy ending. They just go. “That _knight-in-shining-armor_ day… we saved each other…. She saved my life, and I’m not even sure she knows it.”

Hermione is beside me again, her hand squeezing mine. 

“Sir, I love Hermione and I love our baby.” I take a step back, cradling her belly in one arm and placing my hand on top of it. “I regret… so many things… and I would never, never, have wanted it to happen like this… but I will not regret giving my daughter life.”

I can feel Hermione relax fractionally as she intertwines her fingers with my own. I can feel her tears raining down on my hand. 

“Your daughter… a girl?” Hermione’s mother asks. “You know already?”

“Yes.” Hermione sniffs and wipes her eyes. “We found out when… well… there’s a spell…” 

If she ended rather lamely, her mother does seem to notice.

“Oh, Hermione, honey,” her mother whispers, “You could have told us. We would have understood.”

Hermione lets out a soft sob and I release her into her mother’s arms. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry… We have only ever wanted the best for you and now… everything will be so much more difficult. But we were never mad at you, darling. We love you so much! Don’t we, Roger?”

“Of course we do, pet,” Dr. Granger says, awkwardly patting her shoulder while glaring at me. 

I don’t care; he doesn’t have to like me. 

A throat clears behind me, and I turn to see Professor McGonagall. “It’s time,” she says. 

Hermione nods. “Mum, Daddy, they are going to take you somewhere safe. Where You-Know-Who can’t find you again.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Hermione’s mother asks, her voice quivering.

“Of course she is,” her father says, brusquely. “Gather your things, Hermione.”

“No. I’m sorry, Daddy… Mum… but I’m not going with you.”

“But, darling, this… world is so dangerous now. You’ll be safer with us. You’ll be safer without all this… magic complicating your life.”

Her mother may be right. My throat closes and I find it very hard to draw in enough air to say what I need to. 

“Hermione, I think, maybe, you should go with them.” I place my hand on the side of her belly and am rewarded by a ripple of movement. If I blink now tears will spill down my cheeks. “I did promise that I would do anything to keep you safe. To keep you both safe.”

“No!”

“Hermione…” I can’t beg her to go. I can’t not.

“Draco, that won’t keep me safe. That won’t keep her safe. He finds the people he’s looking for. If I disappear now he’ll look for me. You know that. We won’t be safe until he’s gone. Forever. Harry needs me. You need me. And I need you!” 

She’s right. I do need her. 

“We have a plan, don’t we? We can do this.”

I look up and find Hermione’s mother looking at me with what _might_ be approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Surely you remember that whole George-had-his-ear-cursed-off-scene in Deathly Hallows? So, to be clear, I borrowed _heavily_ on that for the hospital wing banter in this chapter, meaning it’s even _less_ mine than everything else. Got it? Good.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I am really sorry about Percy.


	8. Chapter 8

The grey over the lake is now tinged with pink and some of the trees are distinguishable, their bare branches sweeping up against the sky. Hermione’s parents have gone with Professor McGonagall, and Ginny has returned to Gryffindor Tower. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have gone home, with the promise of returning in the morning. Fred walked his parents out of the hospital wing, but he is staying the night with his twin. 

He walks past us but before returning to his brother, he stops. “Malfoy,” he says, extending his hand. His hand is cool and solid around mine. He nods once to Hermione and, again, to me, and disappears into the hospital wing.

Hermione and I are alone again. We turn back toward the window, and I stand behind her, holding her… holding the baby.

She is quiet. 

“I didn’t mean it,” I say. “I didn’t want you to go. I could _never_ want you to go. It’s just…”

She squeezes my hand. “I know. I know why you said it. But, Draco, I _belong_ with you.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, dreading her answer. “I mean really sure. How do you know it’s not just the spell…”

I know that Snape explained to Hermione about _Limitare i Cuori._

Because I couldn’t do it. Dark rituals and wives bound to husbands… I didn’t want to see Hermione’s eyes when she learns what I might have—but _didn’t, couldn’t,_ wouldn’t _have_ —done. 

She pulls out of my arms to look me in the eye. Her hands are firm on mine. “The spell is not _binding_ us, Draco. It’s giving us strength. It’s doing _everything_ it was originally meant for. Otherwise, how could we…

“Draco, I was _so_ scared. That day. I wasn’t strong enough… I just didn’t think I was strong enough. And then you looked right into my eyes… and it was a little bit better. I knew all I had to do was not die… until you could save me.”

I can’t quite understand that faith she had in me. I had no plan… no idea of how I might save her, or even if I could. And, yet… in that moment I trusted her completely. I _knew_ she wouldn’t betray me… not even to save herself. 

“And you did. And you’ve been saving me ever since. Saving _us_.” She places my hands on the sides of her belly, and pushes my right hand against it… with far more pressure than I would ever use. The baby pushes back. “We’re going to be all right. All three of us.” 

_Family…_

It feels so dangerous to even _think_ it… but they are my family. My very own little family, and the idea that I might lose either of them… or that they might lose me…. I feel my eyes go wide and my breathing stop.

“Draco,” Hermione’s voice is almost sharp. “We _will_ be okay.”

I kiss her.

~*~

Before I get to keep my family, first I have to give it away. I knew this day was coming… and in some sense I’ve already done it. Now we must tell the world.

Hermione is beginning to show through her glamour charms—it is time.

The news breaks over the castle like a wave: _Ron Weasley knocked up Hermione Granger._

It’s not like I didn’t know the plan… but I _still_ can’t help the look of shock and horror on my face when I first hear it. 

Pansy is in her glory.

All through the day, Hermione passes through the halls, head high, cheeks red, while not-so-quiet whispers and cat-calls follow her everywhere she goes. Ron, on the other hand, is met with high-fives and adoring glances. Nothing could be more obvious that Ronald Weasley is enjoying every second of this—or that Hermione is not.

By lunchtime even the first years know. 

I am already in the Great Hall when Weasley pulls her through the oak doors and over to the Gryffindor table. A few wolf-whistles greet them. Within moments they are surrounded, Weasley by most of the sixth-and seventh-year boys, Hermione by a not insignificant number of girls… though it looks as if they are being held off a bit by Ginny and Luna. 

Hermione’s face is a horrible combination of guilt and heartbreak. 

I can’t stand it. It’s not her fault. _None_ of this is her fault.

Across the hall I can see Potter and Longbottom leaning against the wall; they are my mirror—from the crossed arms to the looks of disgust resting on their faces.

Snatches of conversation reach me.

“…my mother had no idea!”

“…contraception potion...”

“…you know, heat of the moment and all…”

“…boy or girl…”

“…gonna be a boy.” 

“I think it’s a girl.” Hermione’s voice comes across much clearer. 

“Not a chance, love. Weasleys make boys. After we have at least five boys, you can start hoping for a girl.” He leans down and kisses her.

I can almost feel his brutish tongue pushing into her mouth, almost feel her stifled panic.

I pull myself off the wall and stalk out of the room before I murder him right then and there. 

The Irish Gryffindor boy’s voice rings out: “A toast!”

There is a cheer. 

_“Seamus Finnegan! Ronald Weasley! What on earth are you thinking of!”_ Professor McGonagall’s voice echoes through the Great Hall, but I don’t even slow my stride.

“Draco.” Longbottom must have ducked out the side door at the same time I left because he appears in the hall only seconds after I do. “He’s doing it right. A couple more performances like that and even _he_ won’t remember that it’s a performance.” 

I sigh. Longbottom is completely correct. After _this_ there is not going to be a soul in the castle that thinks for one moment that Weasley is anything but an idiot who got his girlfriend pregnant, exactly what you would expect from a Weasley and a… _Mudblood._

“Well that’s good then, isn’t it?” I snap.

“Hermione remembers. She won’t forget, Draco.”

Of course she won’t. How in hell could she? 

“Hasn’t she fucking been through enough?” I turn, intending to smash my fist into the wall, almost hoping to feel the bones of my hand crack against the unyielding stone. 

Instead I find Potter standing there… and for one unreasonable second I find is face to be a perfectly adequate substitute. 

“Whoa, mate,” he says, fairly calmly under the circumstances. “I’d actually rather you didn’t break my nose. Again.”

“I was actually aiming to break my hand, not your nose.”

“Well. Don’t. Hermione has my cloak for tonight and she needs you.”

~*~

First we have to get through double Potions with Snape. Sometimes I think I spend too much time with the Gryffindors… I love my godfather dearly, but occasionally I find myself viewing the hours spent in Potions with trepidation. 

Never more so than today. There is _no way_ he can allow the news of Hermione’s pregnancy to pass without scathing commentary. 

“Well, well,” Snape says softly as Weasley nearly drags Hermione through the dungeon door. “The famous couple who couldn’t figure out the purpose of a contraception potion.”

Weasley’s face turns redder than his hair. Hermione looks to be about two blinks away from tears. 

Snape flicks his wand and the instructions for today’s potion appear on the blackboard. “Oh, and Weasley. Do pay attention to the directions, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to inadvertently poison your child would you?”

There is a reason Snape paired me with Hermione at the beginning of the year. 

Beside our cauldron, hidden from the rest of the class, is a single lily. It has nothing to do with today’s potion, and I didn’t put it there. 

Hermione sees it, and the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she looks _happy_ , but the crushing weight that has been on her since the morning seems to lift a little. 

Snape is watching us, intensity veiled by his usual sneer. He, too, can smile with only his eyes.

~*~

A note bearing Bellatrix’s scratchy scrawl has requested my presence for the weekend; I would almost rather it had been the burn of the Dark Mark; the Dark Lord is slightly less insane than my aunt.

Lestrange House has been neglected for years, its estates and grounds overrun. The house is little more than a dilapidated pile of stone, with narrow slit windows letting in almost no light to illuminate damp walls and decaying furnishings. 

Bellatrix serves tea in the library, which has far too many shelves for the number of remaining books; dark books, certainly, stacked haphazardly on the shelves, with cracked leather covers and a musty smelly that almost completely overpowers the delicious smells that _should_ be wafting off the tea tray. Bellatrix’s elves have outdone themselves: little sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted cream, little chocolate-drizzled pastries. 

The teapot is chipped, and my cup looks like the recipient of a poorly cast _Reparo_ , but Bellatrix pours the tea like the gracious lady she never was.

“Is it true that the one of the blood-traitor Weasleys has bred with a Mudblood?” she asks, handing me my cup.

I am not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that, and my cup rattles in its saucer. “I believe so, Aunt Bella.”

The fact that Bellatrix has taken note of Hermione’s pregnancy is terrifying, and only the fact that the lie appears to be intact gives me a glimmer of hope. I use the excuse of adding sugar and milk to avoid eye contact with my aunt and stir gently as I arrange my features into those of disinterest and mild distaste. I sip my tea before I look up into her wild eyes. 

“Disgusting,” she says.

“Yes, Aunt Bella.”

“This sort of thing cannot be allowed.” 

“No, Aunt Bella.” I take a bite of a surprisingly delicious cucumber sandwich. 

“I expect you to get rid of the problem.” 

The food turns to ash in my mouth. “Of course, Aunt Bella.”

She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a small vial of a thick, black liquid. She twists it between two fingers as if it is a priceless jewel rather than, what I can only guess, a deadly poison. “Draco,” she purrs, “give this to the Mudblood in… a month or two.” 

She holds it out, and mechanically I take it. “What is it?” 

“A potion to cause a miscarriage.”

“But… abortion potions…”

“ _Not_ an abortion, Draco! A miscarriage!” She looks quite mad for a moment, before becoming almost misty-eyed. “Oh, darling, abortions are quick and relatively painless. A miscarriage on the other hand, rips a living, _wanted_ , child from your womb….”

I feel a momentary pang of sympathy for Bellatrix; I had forgotten, but she lost four babies, all boys. The last one in Azkaban. It was the only time my mother went to visit her. 

“Give it to her after she has felt the baby quicken,” she says, spreading strawberry jam on a scone, as if this is the most reasonable conversation in the world. “She will deliver a dying baby in blood-soaked agony. With any luck the Mudblood won’t survive it, either.”

She cackles around a bite of scone and bright red jam and a crushing terror grips me. 

I have to continue breathing. I have to not faint… or vomit. 

“Yes, Aunt Bella,” I say, hoping my voice does not betray me; surely I, a single, sisterless boy, is allowed a slight qualm with regards to the inner workings of the female body?

“Put it in your pocket, Draco,” she says, and I realize I am still holding the vial. “But don’t forget about it…. Mudbloods must not be allowed to breed… especially not with wizards.”

I slide the vial into my breast pocket and it rests heavily.

“Now, Draco, more tea?”

Etiquette, and probably common sense, rule my answer. “Yes, thank you, Aunt Bella.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are very welcome and greatly appreciated! ~Blessings


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione has been sneaking into the dungeons most evenings to spend my detentions with me. Lately we have been marking the first and second year Potions essays… but today Hermione is exhausted—ashen, except for dark circles under her eyes. 

I take all the essays for myself and Snape doesn’t comment when I transfigure one of his chairs into a squishy sofa. With a look of gratitude in her eyes, Hermione lies on it, her head propped up on several pillows and another between her legs. 

At first she is watching me, but soon she has forgotten all about me, and I am watching her, mesmerized, as she strokes her belly with such love that I realize that it is not _her_ skin she is touching, but the baby’s. 

The essay in front of me has been sitting, neglected, for I-don’t-know-how long… when Snape appears behind me and scoops it, and the rest of the pile, up. He squeezes my shoulder and walks out of the room. 

Hermione doesn’t notice.

It is only because our classmates are idiots that they believe Weasley’s story about managing to impregnate his girlfriend over the Christmas holidays. 

I appreciate the fact that Pansy’s glamour charms are magnificent… but I can clearly see the round ball of a nearly full-term pregnancy peeking through Hermione’s robes every time she moves. The others do not see it only because they do not look.

We are getting close. Too close. 

I’m still not sure what Potter is doing to weaken the Dark Lord… but the chances that he will manage to kill him before Hermione gives birth are becoming vanishingly small. If that happens, the story will go out that Hermione has had a miscarriage. 

Ironically, Bellatrix has given me everything I need to complete the fiction. The vial with the black liquid is hidden in a drawer in my dormitory where I do not have to see it. Still, I can feel the vial heavy over my heart.

Even as a work of fiction, I cannot bear to think about it.

As if to counter this distressing thought, the baby gives an especially violent kick. I can see the shape of… something… was that her _foot?_ … press briefly against Hermione’s robes. 

“Oh!” Hermione says. “She’s going to be a champion kickboxer.”

“What is a kickboxer?”

“Kickboxing is a Muggle sport… _Oh! Ouch!..._ Sort of a dueling sport. Or sometimes for self-defense.”

“Dueling isn’t a sport,” I say, trying to wrap my head around the idea of kicking someone for self-defense. I can’t imagine. My father and Severus were always so clear on the idea of needing a stable stance in any sort of combat situation. Granted, Muggles don’t have _wands…_ but they do have hands. And also knives and those fire-things. “What do they do? Just stand around and kick at each other?”

“Oh!” Hermione gasps, sitting up. The future kickboxing champion has landed another visible blow. “I really have no idea.” 

I slide out of my chair to kneel before Hermione and her precious belly. I place my hands gently on it, and am rewarded by a ripple of movement. 

“Hush, little one. I will teach you to dual just as soon as you’re big enough to hold a wand. There is no reason to kick Mummy black and blue.”

I look up at Hermione to find her looking down at me, her expression tender. She places her hands on mine.

“Draco… I’ve been thinking about names… and I want to name the baby Lily… Is that…? Do you mind terribly?”

My throat is tight. Since the moment I claimed the baby as my own, star charts have been haunting my dreams. Lyra… Cassiopeia… Saipha, maybe…. Of course stars and constellation names are a Black family tradition and probably the very opposite of something Hermione would want. 

She must know I can deny her nothing. 

“Isn’t it really Potter you should be asking?”

“I did. He said he would be honored.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” I separate my fingers and lace them with hers. 

“Draco, I _know_ you were thinking stars… or a constellation, maybe… but I’ve been feeling so _close_ to Lily Potter lately… like she’s been right with me this whole time.” Tears are trickling down her cheeks.

She couldn’t _possibly_ have thought that I would argue with her…? “I know, pet. It’s all right.” With my thumbs, I brush the tears off her cheeks. “Lily is a beautiful name.” 

“Professor McGonagall said… she told me that Lily Potter was… raped here. At this school. It was Death Eaters… sort of an initiation thing.”

_Her name was Lily Evans then…_

“She told you…” I trail off, not sure what McGonagall actually said, not sure what confidences I owe Snape. Probably just about none where Hermione is concerned; there doesn’t seem to be anything that he wouldn’t do or say to make her life easier. Still. It isn’t my choice. 

“No, she didn’t tell me… but… Snape was one of the Death Eaters, wasn’t he?”

I don’t know what to say.

“Yes, Hermione, I was.” Snape has slipped, unobserved, back into the room. “I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“That was it, then. That was when you had your change of heart.”

“It is.”

She nods, looking, surprisingly, not horrified. 

“It’s getting late,” Snape says. “I think I will escort Miss Granger back to Gryffindor Tower.” 

“Goodnight,” I say, gently cupping Hermione’s belly with one hand, and drawing her close with the other. I kiss her gently.

Snape sets the pile of essays back on the table. 

I watch them as they walk out the door, then I turn toward the essays. It looks as though at least half of them have yet to be graded. This will be my life next year, I realize… grading essays, though Transfiguration essays and not, hopefully, Potions ones. 

I may be here for another two hours. Nevertheless, a smile lights my face.

~*~

The third floor is nowhere near deserted enough, but it as far as I could make it before my legs collapsed underneath me. The letter in my hand bears words like “mother”, “St. Mungo’s”, and “unlikely to recover” and they jump out at me through my tears.

I am not sure if the letter, bearing my father’s scrawl is coherent or not; I am not sure if he is upset or not. The fact that Bellatrix has hexed my mother into a magical coma is information I received from Snape.

A quiet voice interrupts me. “Hey.” It is Longbottom, looking grim. “Professor Snape told me to look for you.”

I can’t stand to let him—or _anyone_ —witness this. 

I am sitting on the fucking _floor,_ in tears. I am six years old with a skinned knee. No, I had more poise then. I had more poise when I was three and had dropped my ice cream cone.

“I don’t need your pity,” I say, returning my gaze to the letter. Bright springtime sunshine is streaming down on me. Down on the letter. 

“I know,” Longbottom says, settling himself beside me. “Maybe a bit of company, though? From someone who understands a bit of how you’re feeling?” 

Fortunately I remember _why_ he thinks he would understand before I open my mouth.

I don’t say anything, and neither does Longbottom. He just places one hand on my knee and sits there. 

After everything I did to protect my mother… this happens! This wasn’t punishment from the Dark Lord—for her actions, or mine, or even my father’s. This wasn’t revenge, if Snape is to be believed. This was just my fucking _insane_ aunt being _fucking_ insane. 

Fury and rage war with an inescapable sense of loss. If I move, I will find myself lying on the floor sobbing like a child… or at the Manor making a valiant attempt at murdering my aunt. There is some comfort in the fact that Longbottom is unlikely to allow me to do either.

_I want my mother!_

“I can go with you, if you like. If you want to visit her, your mother,” he says finally.

To see my mother, my beautiful mother, staring blankly at a wall and drooling on herself? I do remember the insults I once threw at Longbottom… and begin to feel sick, on top of everything else.

“Professor Snape says she’s in a coma, right now. She will look like she’s asleep.” Longbottom squeezes my knee a bit. 

I am guessing that I am not the only one remembering that drooling on oneself comment… and yet here he sits. I can’t fucking do this!

I ache to throw insults at him, because that’s what I do. Or did. 

There’s safety in that.

“It will be hard… harder for you, probably,” Longbottom says. “I don’t have any memories of my mother from… before.”

My breath catches. Which is worse? To have your mother tortured into insanity before you know what you’re missing… or this? 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For my aunt.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Bellatrix is evil. You’re not.” He says it like he means it.

I have no answer to that, so we continue to sit. The ray of sunlight crosses the floor slowly, narrowing as it moves. 

“They are going to keep her in a coma for at least a month,” Longbottom says at last. “Professor Snape told me. Then they’ll let her come out of it naturally… and see what the… damage is. There’s no way to know now. It might not be as bad… as my parents.”

I look at him, his face showing a grim empathy. He’s not the bumbling child from First Year, but someone with bone-deep courage. 

He’d have to be… to be sitting here… next to me.

“I was planning to look in on my parents this weekend,” he says. “I’ll check on your mom, too, while I’m there. If you have anything you’d like me to drop off, I’d be happy to… maybe some robes? Those St. Mungo’s robes can be a bit scratchy.”

I nod.

“Draco, if you want me to, whenever you’re ready, I’ll go with you.”

I do _not_ deserve his kindness. 

I stare at him, utterly incapable of expressing my thanks. 

“Meet me in the front hall tomorrow with whatever you want me to bring. Say around nine?”

“Thank you,” I say, finding my voice, if not, precisely, my manners. 

Longbottom nods. “Come on,” he says, “Lunch is soon.”

~*~

Longbottom reports that my mother is still in a coma. They are in no rush to wake her up… they believe healing is taking place while she is unconscious. They are hopeful, he says, but either they, or he, do not actually explain what that means. 

I’m not ready for specifics. 

The days fly by faster than I can count them. 

I’m not ready. For anything. 

Rain is pounding the roof of the Great Hall, a relentless downpour that causes the torches to be lit and makes everyone want to go back to bed. 

Hermione is restless. She sits down and stands up no less than five times during breakfast, but she doesn’t eat more than a bite or two of toast. Ginny touches her hand. Potter rubs her back. Weasley tries to brush at her curls and she slaps his hand away.

If she is not already in labor already, she is very close. 

She doesn’t show up to Potions. 

“Hey, Potter, where’s Granger?” 

Crabbe and Goyle are looking at me with interest. I should be being crueler. I know it. But I can’t do it.

“It’s not really any of your business is it Malfoy?” 

“Well, she’s only my partner,” I make an attempt at a drawl. _Is she all right?_ “Who’s going to shred these dandelion roots if she doesn’t show up?” 

“She’s not your servant, Malfoy.”

Potter’s eyes are twinkling and there is a half-smile playing on his lips. Does he mean it?

“Oh? And what else is a” _–God, Potter, don’t let me say it—_ “Mud—”

A well-placed hex from Potter saves me from having to utter the hated word. 

Harry Potter doesn’t mess around with his stinging hexes, either; it feels like the left half of my face is going to fall off. 

Ignoring the fact that it will be completely healed by the time I even make it to the hospital wing, Snape sends me away, and I hear him threatening to make Potter come back next year to serve detention with him every night. 

I burst through the doors to the hospital wing, and then, more slowly, push through doorway to the private room that has been set aside for Hermione. 

Hermione is there, wearing the oddest assortment of clothing—a long shirt of some kind with a fat orange cat on it and fuzzy socks. I suppose it makes sense that she would not be wearing pants… but she looks exactly like a witch dressed as a Muggle. I would laugh if I wasn’t so worried. 

Ginny and Luna are with her. 

“Draco, how lovely that you’ve joined us,” Luna says, stepping away so that I can take her place beside Hermione.

As I reach Hermione, a spasm takes her and she lets out a soft cry. I reach for her, and take her hand. 

“That’s it, Draco,” Ginny says. “Just let her lean on you. Mum says it goes faster and will hurt less if she walks around and doesn’t lie down.”

I shoot Ginny a panicked look. It looks as though it hurts plenty already. 

“It’s all right, ‘Mione,” Ginny says. “Mum’ll be here soon.”

We stand, we walk, and when a contraction comes, Hermione leans on me and breathes deeply. I kiss her, I rub her back, I tell her she is doing beautifully. 

Outside, the rain doesn’t let up.

“Mr. Malfoy! What are you doing in here?” Madam Pomfrey looks scandalized. “Miss Granger is having a baby! This is no place for a man! Leave at once!”

“Madam Pomfrey,” Ginny says, “in the Muggle world it is quite normal for the… well… There’s no rule against having men at a birth.”

“That,” Madam Pomfrey insists, “is the most barbaric thing I have ever heard!”

“I think it sounds lovely,” Luna says. “After all, men are present at the conception of babies, why shouldn’t they be there at births. Just think of all the wonderful energies…”

Whatever Luna is about to say is lost to me as my Mark sears…. 

He has never called me out of school before.

Not now. _Please, not now._

I _can’t_ leave Hermione. I can’t _not_ answer the Dark Lord’s call. 

I am holding her through another contraction when Mrs. Weasley walks in.

If Molly Weasley finds it odd that I am there, she takes it completely in stride.

“Ahhh, Hermione, dear, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” she says. It’s more of a pant, really. 

“Good girl,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Now, come lie down on the bed for a moment, let me take a peek at you… There you go, Draco, dear, just help her there, yes, that’s right…” She turns toward Ginny. “How far apart are the contractions?” Mrs. Weasley asks. 

“About two minutes,” Ginny says.

“Good, good. That’s right, dear, now you just lean back a bit.” Mrs. Weasley’s calm presence is contagious. Although Madam Pomfrey does not seem to be under her spell; she is still shooting daggers at me.

Mrs. Weasley waives her wand over Hermione’s stomach and smiles. “You’re doing beautifully, dear,” she says.

My Mark is starting to burn again. 

Another contraction is coming. I can see it in Hermione’s eyes, and I reach for her hand. 

“Draco!” Her voice sounds pained. Much more so than before. 

“Bit stronger, there dear? Yes, things are moving along nicely,” Mrs. Weasley says.

“Really! Mr. Malfoy, I must insist! You must leave now.” Madam Pomfrey really is adamant. 

And she is right, god damn it! She’s right.

“Hermione…”

“Will be just fine,” the nurse insists, making a half-hearted attempt at physically removing me from the room.

I lean down and kiss Hermione’s forehead. “You’re doing so beautifully. When I see you again, you’ll be holding Lily. Okay, love?” 

She nods. “I love you, Draco,” she whispers. 

“I love you, too,” I say, suddenly afraid that this will be the last time I will say it. 

Before I can see her again, she has to deliver a baby. _My_ baby. And I have to present myself to the Dark Lord. My arm is on fire.

One day this dangerous game I play will be at an end. One day he will _know._ One day he really will kill me… just not today, _please!_ Just let me see Hermione one more time. Just let me hold my daughter… even if it’s only once. 

Ginny takes my spot at Hermione’s side. And I let her.

“That’s right, dear. Come on, right this way.” I allow Mrs. Weasley to lead me toward the doorway. “It will all be over soon and you’ll be able to hold your—” Mrs. Weasley blushes like her children do, turning beet red. I don’t know why I find this so completely shocking. “Well, _the_ baby.”

I realize that Ginny has caught my eye… her blue eyes, speculative. The corners of her mouth turn up a little.

~*~

Just outside the hospital wing I run—quite literally—into Professor McGonagall.

“Draco,” she says, steadying me with her hand. “The others have already left.”

“Crabbe and Goyle?”

“And Theo Nott,” she says, looking grim. 

Theo had said he wasn’t going to take the Mark. 

“And Professor Snape?”

“Canceled his classes for the rest of the day. He left before any of the others.”

“Professor… Hermione…”

“Hermione will be perfectly fine, Draco.” She squeezes my shoulder gently. 

I nod, quite unable to take the steps necessary to remove myself from the corridor outside of the hospital wing, to leave Hogwarts. To present myself to the Dark Lord. I look, longingly, back toward the hospital wing. 

“Draco,” Professor McGonagall says. “You need to go. Be careful and come back to us safely.”

~*~

The Dark Lord is planning to attack Hogwarts—that much is inescapably clear. He is also planning to do it before the students return home for the summer.

Probably not tomorrow. But soon.

My blood chills at the thought. He is purposely putting children—including _my_ child—directly into the line of fire. 

Classes, schedules, and the habits of the teachers are all discussed at length. I know I am fulfilling my role as a spy. Snape has been very clear: do not leave anything out and do not make up any details. Omissions and lies will be noticed. Crabbe and Goyle are here now, too. As is Theo Nott, his arm still bright red and singey-smelling from his brand-new Dark Mark. 

He looks miserable, but there isn’t anything I can do about that.

~*~

As we are finally leaving the Manor, Bellatrix grabs me by the arm, effectively separating me from my classmates. I fight not to cringe, or hex her into oblivion.

“You go on ahead, boys,” she hisses. “I have something to discuss with Draco.” 

They hasten to do her bidding, abandoning me without a backward glance. Honestly, I can’t blame them. 

“The Mudblood… is it done, Draco?” she asks. “The fat one—” Bellatrix waives her hand in the direction Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott all but fled her presence “—said the Mudblood was missing from her classes today.” 

“Yes, Aunt Bella.” I take a deep breath. “She’s in the hospital wing. They sent for Molly Weasley.”

“A midwife, then?” Bellatrix laughs cruelly. “No midwife can help her… The potion will sneak through her veins… and then the blood will start as the baby tears itself from her womb….”

Ice creeps up my spine.

 _She’s fine. She’s fine. This is_ labor _not Bella’s terrifying potion._

“Did you see it, Draco? The blood?”

“I…” She will _Crucio_ me if I faint now, but whatever blood there might be elsewhere, there certainly isn’t any in my head. “Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let me anywhere near her. And then, I…” 

I get ahold of myself and nod toward my Marked arm to indicate more urgent business. 

She cackles, an unhinged glimmer in her eye. 

“It should be all over by now… A pity you missed it. Her screams will have been _terrible._ ” 

I am using every drop of self-control I have. I fear it won’t be enough.

“Draco!” Snape’s voice cuts through my fear and I breathe. “You should have left with the others.”

“I just wanted to have a little chat with my nephew, Severus,” Bellatrix purrs. “Surely you don’t mind.”

Snape ignores her completely. “I do not expect to find that you have sneaked off to your common room, either,” he says. “You know exactly where you need to be tonight, and I expect you to get there.”

“Yes, sir.” I turn to leave.

“What, Draco, no kiss for your auntie?” Bellatrix pouts.

I would rather kiss a venomous serpent, but I briefly press my lips against her cold cheek. “Goodnight, Aunt Bella.”

“Goodnight, Draco, darling. I expect I will be seeing you soon.”

I suppress my shiver long enough to leave her presence, but not much longer.

~*~

I stop in the bathroom to wash my hands and face before entering the hospital wing. I walk slowly through the ward and find myself standing, unregarded, in the doorway to Hermione’s room.

Ginny and Luna are still there, and Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom have joined them. Hermione is sitting in the bed, looking radiant, but exhausted. Weasley is sitting in the only chair.

Holding my daughter.

He cups her little head in his big hand and looks at her with wonder… as if he would like nothing more than to have her for his own.

A crushing weight hits me. If Hermione hadn’t been kidnapped all those months ago, the baby would be his. And I would be here, like I am now, an unwelcome outsider. A Death Eater. 

I don’t really believe it. _I don’t!_ But some part of me feels it would just be better if I turned away and let them live happily ever after. 

Ginny looks up, her cat-eyes locking onto mine. “I think it’s time for us to go,” she says, plucking the baby out of her brother’s arms. She kisses her white head before handing her to Hermione. 

There is a brief flurry of motion as everyone says “goodnight” and “congratulations” to Hermione. Luna says something, lightly brushing the baby’s head like a fairy godmother in a storybook, before sort of floating from the room. “Hello, Draco,” she says, brushing me, too, as she passes. The others follow, and there are nods and muffled greetings; Weasley ignores me completely, Potter squeezes my elbow as he passes.

Slowly I walk into the room. Hermione’s hair is a thick, dark cloud in the candlelight, the baby is cradled in her arms. 

“You are so beautiful,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. 

“Come meet your daughter,” she says. “Lily, here’s your Daddy.”

I thought she was asleep, but the bundle Hermione hands me is staring at me with wide, inquisitive eyes. 

She is pale, with rose petals for cheeks and white-blond hair. I can’t imagine any baby being more perfect. 

I stare and stare. “Lily,” I say, tears forming in my eyes. “My most precious girl. You can’t possibly know how happy you make me. You can’t possibly know how much I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are very welcome and greatly appreciated! ~Blessings


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione’s room at the back of the hospital wing has become a sort of inter-house common room of late. For something that was supposed to be a complete secret—that Hermione has given birth to a healthy daughter—an awful lot of people seem to know about it. 

Mrs. Weasley, of course, is in and out, usually with at least one other Weasley in tow. Professor Lupin and my cousin Tonks, who is expecting herself, have visited at least once. Lily looks oddly large in Professor Flitwick’s arms, but he seems to love holding her. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, somewhat reluctantly handing Lily to me when I walked into the room. He said it so matter-of-factly that I felt my heart leap, pride and fear warring with one another. Really, I want nothing more than to shout from the rooftops that I have a perfect baby girl. 

Ginny and Luna are often there, of course, and Potter; Longbottom, too; Weasley less often, which I can’t help but be glad about; I even met Pansy there once, and she blushed to be caught cooing over Lily and counting toes.

~*~

One evening I am walking in with Potter when we meet Snape coming out of Hermione’s room. The door shuts, the hospital wing is completely empty.

“Sir,” Potter asks, “Can I ask you something?”

For once Snape has no caustic response for Potter; he merely nods.

“Do you know why Hermione wanted to name the baby Lily?” From the look on Potter’s face I am willing to bet that he already knows the answer to this question. I can’t imagine why he would want it confirmed.

“Your mother was a very admirable woman, Potter.”

“Sir?” 

I can’t imagine what would have inspired Potter to use that tone—a tone that even _I_ , his godson, wouldn’t have used; a tone that was both accusatory and demanding. 

But, then, that's Potter for you.

I can see Snape’s temper rising though, for the moment, it is still neatly bound. I consider moving away from Potter; I don’t really want to be standing next to him when those bonds break.

“Potter.” Snape’s tone is beyond dangerous and I have to fight not to take a step backwards. Potter does not seem to be affected. “Fighting the Dark Lord was not any easier – or safer – the first time around. There were casualties, and having his Death Eaters rape Muggle-born witches has always been a favorite sport of the Dark Lord—and one of his favorite tests of loyalty. And, yes Potter, your mother was one of the witches who suffered at the hands of the Death Eaters. I believe that Hermione has taken some comfort in that fact.”

Potter’s eyes flash dangerously. “Were you one of the Death Eaters?”

Snape sinks down onto a nearby bed, his head falling into his hands. 

He’s said it twice before in my presence. But this time is different… so different. “Yes, Harry, to prove my loyalty to the Dark Lord, I—and three others—raped one of the only people who has ever shown me a hint of kindness.” 

I am somewhat surprised that Potter does not attack Snape. And I think Snape would have welcomed his righteous rage. Instead, Potter asks, “Who were the others?”

“Evan Rosier and Damien Wilkes, both of whom are dead, and—” Snape looks up “—Lucius Malfoy.” 

It is not Potter’s eyes that he meets, however. He meets mine.

I feel the color drain from my face. I hadn’t known; I _really hadn’t known._

 _How_ could I _not_ have known?

I am horrified. Beyond horrified. 

It makes no sense. I have seen _first hand_ what my father is capable of. And yet… perhaps it is only the simple knowledge that my father had always been a monster….

Or maybe that it was that Lily Evans Potter was so astonishingly admirable.

But Potter isn’t done. “Sir, does that mean that you or…” He casts a quick and unreadable glance in my direction. “Does that mean you could be my father?”

If anyone had ever told me that I would be pleased to find out that Potter was my brother I would have hexed them into another time zone. But now… who knows if my mother will ever recover. And my father… 

It doesn’t take an OWL in Arithmancy to figure out that there is no possible way that Potter and I can be brothers… but I find myself hoping that Snape will tell us that we are. 

Potter, I am sure, is not. _He_ might not have his parents, but he has the Weasleys… and scores of other people who love him. He will never be short of family. 

I have never had anyone… and suddenly I am feeling very alone. 

“Surely you have access to a mirror, Potter?” Snape’s voice lashes out like a whip. 

“Wh-what?” 

“What I mean, Harry,” Snape says, gentling his voice to a tone that he might have used with me, “Is that, honored as I would be to have you for a son, there is absolutely no doubt that James Potter is your father.”

Emotions sweep across Potter’s face almost too fast to read. But I am sure that one of them is regret. “You… you would be honored to have me as your son?”

“Yes, Potter,” Snape says, sounding a little more like himself. “I cannot imagine that it has escaped your notice that you are an extremely talented and courageous young wizard? Any man would be honored to call you Son.”

And with that, Snape sweeps from the room, his black robes billowing behind him.

“Harry, any man would be proud to have you for a brother, too,” I say without thinking. 

Potter nods, looking a little lost. “Draco…” he seems to be trying out the name, “I am going to kill your father.” He says this matter-of-factly, though his throat sounds tight.

I nod slowly. 

But then I say, “No. You are going to kill the Dark Lord. But if… Lucius… is still alive when you are done with that, I won’t stop you from killing him.” I take a deep breath wondering _how_ I can possibly be calmly arranging my own father’s destruction, and at the same time, wondering why it has taken me so long to realize that it needs to be done. My throat tightens, but I manage, “Otherwise I will do it.”

Potter nods back, and places a hand on my upper arm. It is very like a hug. I nod again, completely at a loss for words.

~*~

It is peaceful, the back room of the hospital wing, sitting around Hermione’s bed. My detentions now take place in the hospital wing—in the presence of Potter, Ginny, Luna, and Longbottom. And Weasley, which is what makes it a punishment, I suppose.

And, for once, Madam Pomfrey does not seem to be in a hurry to chase everyone away from her patient. Of course, Hermione isn’t really her patient. She isn’t sick; she’s had a baby.

A baby that, I think, is never put down. If Hermione isn’t nursing her or holding her, someone else is. 

But War is never far from us. Even here. 

The Dark Lord is planning to attack Hogwarts. It’s time to act. Potter says he’s ready. 

“He’s staying at Malfoy Manor,” I say. “But the wards he’s put up… you can’t even get onto the grounds without a Dark Mark.”

“Couldn’t you just Apperate in?”

Weasley is just dumb.

“Right,” I say, scathingly. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have thought of that.” 

He _had_ thought of that, of course, not that it would have mattered: No one except a Malfoy can Apperate onto the grounds… My heart begins to speed to the point where it feels like a hummingbird trapped in a cage. “My father and I can Apperate in.”

“But _Harry_ is the one who needs to kill You Know Who, not _you,_ ” Weasely said. “Or do you think you can, I don’t know, _ferret_ your way into fulfilling the prophecy, too?” 

Dumb, but kind of funny.

“My _point_ is,” I snap, “that that Dark Lord has been unable to erect any wards to keep my father and myself _out._ No matter what, I can still get in… to any place in the house, or on the grounds.”

This statement is met by a brief moment of silence, before Longbottom clears his throat.

“There is a potion, sort of the opposite of Polyjuice, that actually changes a person’s magical _core_ , rather than their appearance. It’s made with a few drops of blood from the person you’re intending to change into.” Longbottom, I have come to understand, is not dumb—even when it comes to Potions. He is an abysmal potion-brewer, but his understanding of the theory is superb. “Draco, do you think that would fool the wards?”

“I do, actually. That’s a good thought, Neville,” I say.

“I’m pretty sure that potion takes a lot less time than Polyjuice to brew, too…” Hermione trails off. “It’s just that I’m sure that the wards would know if, well, Draco and, well… _Draco_ Apperated in. There must be some sort of protection against that?” 

She looks at me and I nod, reluctantly. 

“Does it have to be you or your father? Could it be any Malfoy?” Ginny asks.

“I think so. That particular ward was created by my grandfather… so any of his direct descendants would be able to. But my father was an only child and… ” I look at Potter, and he shares a ghost of a smile with me. “I don’t have a brother.”

“I suppose I could go in by myself…” Potter says. “If Draco could give me a really good description of the place…”

It isn’t a very good idea, but I can’t think of a better one.

Silence forms around Potter volunteering for what amounts to a suicide mission. Then Hermione speaks: “We could use Lily’s blood.”

This time the silence is deafening. 

“Hermione?” Potter whispers “I didn’t think you knew… who… Lucius Malfoy? You’re sure?” 

Potter’s eyes meet mine. He looks… hurt, confused, lost… and very much like he is going to be ill. And he is looking at me as if I might have the answers. I start to open my mouth, though I have exactly no idea what I am going to say.

It doesn’t matter. Weasely has started shouting. “Hermione! What the hell were you thinking? I thought you didn’t know who— How could you bring that slimy Death Eater’s baby into the world? You should have gotten rid of it when you had the chance!”

I would have killed him if the look on Hermione’s face isn’t holding me rooted me to the spot. 

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My heart isn’t beating.

Hermione, my brave and beautiful Hermione, who survived being kidnapped and raped by five men, including _myself_ and had enough strength to comfort _me_ afterword… who went through her daily classes among whispers, taunts, and stares and never let her concentration falter… who carried the child conceived of that horrible afternoon with love… and who somehow found the courage to let me _hope_ that I could have a relationship with my daughter, and her mother, has just shattered before my eyes. 

In her arms, Lily begins to cry.

There is a flash of light and I look to find Weasley on the floor of the hospital wing. Ginny, Neville, and Luna all have their wands out. Weasley is unconscious, though whole, and I expect that the geraniums which are now sprouting from his ears are Luna’s work.

Potter hasn’t been hit with any spells, I am sure, but he might as well have been Petrified. 

“Well, _that_ was not a very nice thing to say.” Luna twirls her wand in a theatrical sort of way before stowing it behind her ear. “No it wasn’t,” she continues, pitching her voice higher and scooping Lily out of Hermione’s arms. 

“Hermione…?” Ginny asks, touching her shoulder. 

“I’m okay,” she says, finally breathing. Finally blinking. A small bit of color returns to her face. 

Lily is starting to settle as Luna sort of bounces around the room chanting, “You are perfect,” accenting each “perfect” with little hop. “Yes, you are. Don’t you let that mean man tell you…” 

She stops. 

“Hermione… I know that Lily looks like… well… But if we are going to use this potion, we would have to be positive. Otherwise, Harry could be killed trying to Apperate through the wards.”

I glance at Hermione and she nods. The time for lies is long past.

“The potion will work,” I say. “Lily is _my_ daughter.” 

“Oh,” Luna says, “she looks just like you. Very beautiful.” She returns her attention to Lily and begins swaying back and forth. “Oh, yes, you are so very beautiful.”

“What? Malfoy! How?” Potter unfreezes and is across the room before I can do more than blink. His hands are on me and I am waiting for violence that does not come.

“Harry… Don’t ask. Just… please… don’t ask.”

His arms tighten around me. A hug. A real one. And I hold him back. Tight.

~*~

“Are you ready, Mr. Potter?” Snape asks.

Harry nods, white as a sheet. 

“Remember, Harry, once you take that potion, you have to call me ‘Daddy’.” I feel a little snarkiness will help everyone get through this. Especially me. My teeth are chattering I am shaking so hard. 

If this doesn’t work, we are dead. _Dead._

Our one back-up plan is the portkey Hermione has to take her and the baby… somewhere. I don’t know where. Traveling by portkey isn’t really safe for a newborn, but staying at Hogwarts after Harry is killed would be far less safe. 

All of our eggs are literally in one _fucking_ basket, and my hands are shaking so badly they are going to be scrambled before we even get there. 

“Now,” Snape is saying, “unlike Polyjuice, you will still _look_ like you. But your cells, magical core, everything internal will be Lily. Don’t try any magic, just hang on to Draco, let him Apparate you into the Manor, and change yourself back.”

He hands me a second vial. The one that will turn Harry back into Harry.

“One more thing, Mr. Potter. I know you have taken Polyjuice potion before… and I have to warn you; this potion is going to make the effects of Polyjuice seem like a gentle massage.”

Harry loses every last speck of color. His face is now all eyes and scar. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Snape say, grasping him briefly on the shoulder. “You can do this.”

“Yes, sir. I know, sir. Thank you, sir.”

We have already kissed Hermione goodbye. There is nothing left to do, but walk out of Hogwarts and hope we make it into the Manor, and into a safe hiding spot, alive. 

Snape is going ahead of us. He is going get into position and kill the snake. Then we emerge and kill the Dark Lord. In theory, with him dead, the wards he placed around the Manor will break and the Order of the Phoenix will swarm the place, killing and capturing Death Eaters before they can kill us.

I cannot imagine a plan wherein so many things could go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to read your comments! ~ Blessings


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are... the very last chapter! Thank you _so_ much for reading, and for all your kudos and comments. They are greatly appreciated!

My memories of the Final Battle—a grandiose title if I ever heard one—are incomplete; some moments are etched, as perfect and detailed as a photograph, others are hazy and indistinct. There are moments, moments that I think ought to be there, moments that I _know_ are important, that are missing altogether. 

I don’t mind the missing moments. I have heard that soldiers sometimes have gaps in their memories… to shield them from their most horrific battles. 

I have also heard that they do, eventually, remember. I hope I never do.

I never want a memory of the deaths of Crabbe and Goyle. 

I do not want to have to look one of my newfound friends in the eye and realize that it was he—or she, because I do remember Ginny Weasley, like a fiery demon, being there—who killed my childhood companions. 

I do not want to know if it was me.

The deaths of their fathers are some of the more hazy moments. I am fairly certain that I am not the one who cast the curses that ended their lives; the fact that they are dead is enough. 

Crystal clear is the death of my Uncle Rodolphus and feeling a sickening joy – one that I wish to god I hadn’t felt – when I cast Snape’s _Sectumsempra_ curse on him. It was the easiest spell I have ever cast. I remember the feel of the wand beneath my fingers, that my left foot was ahead of my right, and that I was standing on a bit of blue, broken vase, I remember Harry’s weight—he was still almost unable to support himself at this point—being no burden. I remember my uncle screaming… screaming for me to stop, screaming for Bellatrix, just screaming as his blood spilled, spraying the walls red and seeping into the cracks of the hardwood floor.

_Blood._

So much blood, copper-smelling and pooling at my feet. Blood from where that damn snake bit Severus just seconds before he killed it. 

Blood trickling from Harry’s head; he hit it against the mantle when he paused just a moment too long and the Dark Lord hit him with a killing curse. My own scream erupting from my throat. 

_Screams._

A scream like the world ending and a ruby encrusted sword swinging toward the Dark Lord’s head being wielded by a Severus who was _not_ lying, dying, beside Harry. And a sickening _thud_ of the head hitting the floor at my feet. 

The screams of Bellatrix, sharp and endless… before being silenced forever. I think _not_ by me… but by whom I couldn’t say. 

Because the Severus with the sword was dropping it and running to the dying Severus and, using Neville’s voice, saying the spells to heal wounds, administering an antidote to the venom. And I don’t know who else was in the room. I feel like I _should_ know who else was in the room… but I don’t.

I remember a soft gasp and, suddenly, Harry being not dead. 

There were crashes and shouts and rainbows of spells from every direction, and me trying to get Harry to his feet, to get out of the way, to get past the gardens to a place where we could Apperate with Harry being _Harry_ once again. 

I remember the eyes of my father, open and staring. Dead. Later I learned that Severus, leaning heavily on Neville turned back into Neville, was the one to cast the curse. I had forgotten that he, also, had a very personal reason for wanting Lucius Malfoy dead.

And I remember springtime flowers dancing on a warm breeze… and Theo Nott standing in front of me. “I’m sorry, Draco,” he said, and pointed his wand at his own head. _“Avada Kadavera.”_ I remember thinking the flash of green shouldn’t have shown so brightly against the green of the garden, against the sunshine. And my hoarse, “No!” said after it was too late to do any good at all.

~*~

We saved the world and _still_ had to sit for our NEWTS.

I shouldn’t have complained. At least to Harry, anyway. “Seventh year in a row,” he said, a wry smile on his face. “Get used to it, Draco, you’re one of the good guys now.”

And now even those are over and Hermione and I have brought the baby out onto the grounds for some fresh air… and to be alone. 

We haven’t really _talked_ since the Final Battle... first there was the retreating into the safety of Hogwarts, then there were our NEWTS. 

It’s hard to get around the sound of the birds and the gentle lapping of the Black Lake against the stony shore… and actually say the things that I want… need… to say. _What if she says no?_

The warm summer sun presses against my back like a light blanket. Or maybe a hug. Hermione is barefoot, her toes wiggling in the grass. Baby Lily is asleep in her basket, a light shading charm protecting her delicate features. 

I could look at her all day, every day for the rest of my life.

“Erm… Malfoy?” Weasley has stopped, just out of easy hexing range. His face is the same shade as his hair. “Could I have a word?”

I don’t want to talk to him… but he is important to Hermione. Right now, she might be inclined to hex him to the moon, but at some point years of friendship will probably win out over the fact that he is an utter and complete arse. 

I probably _should_ talk to him… if only to hear what he has to say.

I squeeze Hermione’s hand and stand up.

Weasley takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

I honestly wasn’t expecting _that._ “Isn’t it really Hermione you should be apologizing to?” I ask, a slight sneer in my voice.

“Yeah. I mean I will… to her… later. But, Malfoy, I… You gave me your child, your _daughter_ , to protect. And, maybe even love a little bit, and… I didn’t do a very good job.”

He looks like maybe he would like me to say something, but I’m not about to. 

“The things I said. In Snape’s office when you first… well Hermione first told us… I mean she wasn’t really a _person_ then, I guess—”

“She was to me,” I say, coldly. “She was a _person_ , my _child_ , from the day I found out about her existence.” 

Weasley blanches, though the blush hasn’t completely faded and the result is that his face looks a bit like strawberries and cream. I would laugh if I saw _anything_ amusing in this conversation. 

“And then what I said in the hospital wing. That was unforgivable…”

“I agree.”

“I have a present for Lily,” Weasley says.

I hold out my hand. “Show it to me.”

It is thin and flat. A book, maybe? I waive my wand and detect magic, but nothing dark or harmful. I hand it back. “Okay.”

Weasley looks more sad than offended.

“They would have stopped at nothing to kill her,” I say, feeling a slight urge to justify my actions. “Bellatrix gave me a potion to cause a miscarriage… and that was when she thought Lily was yours. If they had thought she was mine… Lily would have died, and Hermione along with her. Really, I have to forgive you. You saved their lives.” 

A vision of blood and a doll-sized Lily struggling to breathe flashes into my head. And of Hermione, smeared in blood and deadly white. 

“Malfoy… Draco…, it’s over. They’re safe now.”

I nod. And take a deep breath. “You’d better give that to Hermione.”

He walks over to where Hermione and Lily are waiting. “’Mione.”

“Ronald,” she says, her voice and features betraying nothing. 

“Can I sit? I have a present for Lily.”

She nods and accepts the package, unwrapping it carefully. 

It is indeed a book, entitled _Mother Goose_ with a picture of an old woman riding a goose through a cloud-filled sky on the cover. 

“Ron…”

I can tell by her voice that she’s pretty much forgiven him everything. “How did you…?”

“Well, I knew it was your favorite, growing up. And then I got Harry to go with me into Muggle London so that… well, so I didn’t get lost. Or get the wrong book.”

She opens the book, turning the pages carefully.

_Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep, and can’t tell where to find them.  
Leave them alone, and they’ll come home, wagging their tails behind them._

The top picture shows a panicky-looking little girl in Victorian costuming running through a rocky countryside, presumably looking for her lost sheep. In the bottom picture, three sheep sheepishly appear, they are indeed wagging their tails, and the little girl pounces on them, hugging each in turn.

This is a _Muggle_ book. With moving pictures. 

“Fred and George taught me the spell,” Weasley says, smiling. “Bit tricky, that, but I think I did it all right. I knew you’d want to read these to her, but I didn’t want her to get bored, you know? Because in Wizarding books, the pictures move, of course.” 

I’m touched. 

Tears are flowing down Hermione’s face. “Thank you,” she whispers.

~*~

Weasley leaves and the morning sun turns into afternoon sun. Hermione and I eat the lunch I packed, and Lily wakes up. Hermione nurses her, and we play with her. Hermione recites what, I assume, are some of Mother Goose’s Rhymes, and, not to be outdone, I recite some of my own nursery rhymes.

Lily falls asleep in my arms. 

The last thing I want is to put her down, but I really feel like I need two hands at the moment. 

“Daddy loves you so much,” I say to Lily, who doesn’t stir. “But right now I need to talk to Mummy.” With a gentle kiss on her snowy head, I place her carefully back in her basket.

~*~

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore had found that if he leaned his head as far to the right as it could possibly go without falling into another portrait, he could see out of the window and onto the grounds all the way to the lake in one direction, and over to the Quidditch pitch in the other. And he had found that if he leaned forward as far as was possible without falling out if his frame altogether (he wasn’t sure if this was actually possible, but he was absolutely sure that he did not want to find out), and tilted his head a little to the left, he could see down into the book where the names of future Hogwarts students were written.

Generally the children’s names appeared, materializing out of the page in a swirl of gold and magic at the moment of their birth… and Hermione and Draco’s daughter was no exception. But where a name usually included a first name, a middle name, and a last name, her name appeared resolutely alone. 

Lily.

Albus watched Draco set Baby Lily back in her basket, with a little twinge of his paint-and-canvas heart. He had had great faith in the boy… faith in the fact that he wasn’t his father, faith that he would do the right thing when it actually came to it.

But the young Malfoy’s actions had gone above and beyond anything that Dumbledore could possibly have hoped. Lily was the living proof.

He saw Draco pick up Hermione’s hand, he saw the glint of something that might have been an emerald, and the two heads come together.

He leaned forward in time to see the parchment below him begin to glisten and shimmer.

“Minerva! Severus!” he shouted.

Professor McGonagall flew out of the doorway that led to her private rooms. A moment later Snape barreled up the steps and into the Headmistresses’ office.

“Do you know, Albus, that you are merely paint and canvas now?” Snape said. “Minerva and I are no longer at your beck and call.”

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore gave this statement the credence that it was worth. 

He nodded to the book. “Look.”

They did.

And Severus read out: “Lily Narcissa Granger-Malfoy.”

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to hear your comments! ~Blessings
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as [ belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com).


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